Saturday, December 15, 2012


The shadows of the previous day's events roll into the new morning. 
Tinting the everyday routine with random tears, as a country struggles with collective grief. 
Trying to find answers to the unanswerable.  Assigning blame to politicians, or groups, or God.
Yet the world moves on, the day continues. Errands call for completion.
In an effort to cope, a cloak of anger and outrage is thrown over empathy.
While in one small town the world stopped.  Left momentarily behind.

The echo of a small voice calling in the night for a glass of water, another story, one more kiss
Christmas trees standing vigil over presents, the carefully chosen and the snagged on a whim. 
Wrapped and tagged with love, never to be unwrapped.
Mommies lie in empty beds, clutching cloth, inhaling the scent of their hearts, already fading.
Daddies torn between crumbling in pain and standing strong for the family.
Siblings struggling with suddenly being one less.

Until the groan of the world restarting pulls them relentlessly into a different future.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Rock You Like a Hurricane

sharing a piece of my nanowrimo project.  just because.  and remember, it's nano, quantity-not quality.

Andrew was coming in hard and merciless. Anne Marie was swinging a hammer with the rest. Boarding up windows, ready to ride out the storm.

As the winds blew in, the sky darkened. She’d come here to investigate the stories of zombies. She’d seldom followed up on this type of report, most were crap. But this particular area seemed to have more than its share of urban legends about them as well as a run of mysterious and gruesome killings.

She cursed herself for not looking at long term forecasts for the area. Hurricane parties were not going to further her research. She pounded a final nail and scurried indoors to wait out the storm.

The low rent complex she had chosen was mostly empty. The hold out residents were those with the glassy eyes of drug users that had no where else to go. Most were camped out in the building’s narrow hall. Curled up in pitiful balls, enduring various states of jonesing. The mostly conscious eyed her warily as she passed, her steps disturbing the perpetual dust and other debris that ever lined the worn carpet.

None dared to bother her since she had physically removed the few that thought her rooms to be an easy target for robbery and other amusements by assault. Anne Marie never feared the criminal fringes of humanity. A few broken bones and other embarrassing injuries had them walking a wider path when they caught sight of her. After all, they were merely human. Of course, she rarely feared the inhuman either. They could handled, though she found killing them to be the easiest and obviously most permanent answer.

She let herself into her rooms. The boarded windows made the space seem close in the darkness. With no power, she resorted to candlelight. The lazy flickering gave her a feeling of calm that electric lighting never could. As the storm gained strength, she settled into a comfortable overstuffed chair with a pile of pages, some computer printed, others were copies of notes from the local police, along with many newspaper clippings, all covered with notes scribbled in her own hand.

She was intent on her work, when she became aware of a sudden lull. The eye, she thought. Soon the other wall would arrive with another round of screaming winds and pounding rain.

Just as she opened another can of soda, she heard the crash of the outer entry door. The heavy footsteps that followed were muffled only a small bit by her closed door. Her hearing was more acute than most people, she could sort out the sounds of shuffling that would be the residents winding themselves into tighter balls as heavy footsteps moved along the hallway. Boots, she decided, well made, heavy boots.

The ancient broadsword that traveled with her had made its way to her hand. She stood in practiced balance, ready to defend or strike. Which ever she deemed necessary.

“Annie! Annie, me love! I know you're here, I can smell ye!” the heavily accented voice, funneled by the narrow confines of the hall, seemed to fill her room.

With a sigh of annoyance, she relaxed her stance slightly. She knew the owner of that voice. Had hoped never to hear it again.

Anne Marie could feel the boot tread stop in front of her door, “come on sweetling, let an old friend in. It’s positively monstrous out there.”

She could refuse to answer, but it wouldn’t stop him, just make him more determined to get a reaction from her. Giving irritation to her voice, she answered, “Go away, Liam, I’m not in a mood to entertain you, and I’m far too busy to be bothered with killing you right now.” She gave a short snort of regret, “I should have killed you last time. I was evidently in a far too generous state.”

He chuckled, “you'd not be the first lass that wanted to do me in, m’dear. Its my wanderin’ eye always gets me in trouble with the ladies.”

“Then please, wander your eye elsewhere, there’s naught here to see.”

“Hah!. Slipped into the “auld” English a moment there.” The doorknob jiggled as he tested it, knowing it would be locked. “You're too tense, girl. All worried about fitting in. Have you adopted the local drawl as well?”

Anne Marie growled under her breath. Her ability with language and dialect had served her well. She could pass for a local almost anywhere in the world. Yet Liam could cause her to make mistakes. That made him dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than those she hunted.

She resigned herself to his presence and returned the blade to its worn leather sheath. “Soft as a babe’s breath that was.” Liam’s hearing was almost as good as her own. “ I’m glad you've changed your mind about killin’ me right now.”

“Right now, but I could reverse that decision easily if you annoy me much more.” She turned the flimsy lock and opened the door. The point of the dirk she held to replace the sword drew a single drop of blood from Liam’s neck as she blocked him from bursting into the room. “Not so fast, I’ll need an inventory of your knives first.”

Liam rolled is eyes dramatically, “Annie, I’m here as your friend…”

“Now, Liam. How many and where.”

“Fine lassie. There's the blade is me right toe, the buck knife, a switchblade in me left pocket and three of them throwing stars from the Japans in the right. A tension triggered blade on one arm and the other,” he grinned with pride, “the other is released and pointing at a target right below your pretty bosom.”

Anne Marie side stepped with practiced ease, her dirk taking an extra layer off his throat out of spite. “You are a fool, Liam. I will kill you one day.”

“But not today, Annie, not today.” He glanced quickly around the small space, then made himself comfortable on a small love seat across from her chair. “Sit down, girl! Relax.”

Anne Marie returned to her chair, gathering the papers and clippings she’d dropped when Liam made his noisy entry. “Ive never been good at small talk, Liam, what do you want? I would like to finish my research, when the storm has passed I have things I need to do.”

“Company, Annie. You told me long ago that immortality was over rated. I know now what you meant.” The smile he gave her now held a hint of sadness and regret. “You're the only one left has known me most my life.”

‘You made you own choice, I warned you.” Anne Marie had limited pity for him. “Why don’t you track some of your blood? Become the obnoxious well to do uncle. And leave me alone.”

“I just don’t have the stamina to track my bloodline like you did. I have to say though, I was intrigued when I found you had left Renewal and your little great great great…how many? Granddaughter.”

Liam eyed the papers, “that’s why I'm here to help you out, sweetling. I have info ye need to finish your task and get back to stalking your descendants”

“I. Work. Alone.” She said each word quietly, yet the force made her meaning clear.

“Aye, I know, the lone gunman. Er, swordsman…woman, whatever.” Liam wave a hand in dismissal. “I still have info. I know some things ye don’t. So. You can hear me out, and let me help, or I can take my knowledge elsewhere.”

The elsewhere caught Anne Marie’s attention. “What do you mean, elsewhere? Who else would believe, much less be interested?” He was hinting at another hunter. She hated dealing with other hunters. They were, generally, ill equipped, undereducated, and mostly, in the way.

“Oh, there’s others. Here. Drawn by the same stories probably caught your eye, lassie.” Liam knew he had her attention now. “Scary murders, no suspects. Fresh bodies disappearing from the local morgue…”

“Bodies disappearing?” Anne Marie hadn't come across any news of body snatching.

“Got ye now, haven’t I, lass.” He didn’t even attempt to hide his delight. “Aye, girlie, bodies gone missing overnight. And often the theft, if that's what it is, is followed by another unpleasant crime scene.”

He snatched the stack of papers from her hand and started to study them. “For someone that pokes fun at me accent, you oughtta start writin’ in that language you're speakin’ at the moment.” He could make no sense of the characters scrawled in the margins of the reports and clippings. The alphabet used had disappeared over a millennium ago.

Anne Marie smiled sweetly, “ there's a reason for that. Of course, if your info is legitimate, I might translate some of it for you.”

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Dressed to Kill

Liam straightened the the sheath of the buck knife on the belt of his black jeans.

The onyx jewelled string tie adorning his cobalt blue shirt concealed a tiny dagger.

He rapped the heel of one snake skin boot and was pleased by the snick as the razor sharp blade sprung from the toe.

He adjusted the tension bands on his forearms, satisfied they would release the daggers when needed.

A quick check of the pockets of his leather jacket. Yes, three shuriken, one switchblade.

Curling a lip at his reflection he thought, "Now, there is one sharp dressed man."

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog
Linking up with Lance and Leeroy
This is my 100 words inspired by ZZ Top’s Sharp Dressed Man.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Not Present

Exhaustion rolls across me in waves.

Confusion eroding intellect, twisting the mundane to the monstrous.  Frustration filing compassion to an angry blade of indifference.

Bits of humanity leached away on a desperate tide of tired.
Muscles numb with ache continuing their task by rote.  Shattered, scattered thoughts no longer involved in the process.

Mindless movement attempting to achieve a forgotten goal.

An empty shell worn smooth, tossed like so much flotsam in an ocean of things needing done, wanting finished, demanding attention that has wandered off with unrested distraction.

Leaving only tears to wash away the ashes of my dreams.

My take on Lance's 100WordSong: Falling to Pieces by the great Faith No More

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Never Forget

 It should never have happened.  

Anne Marie had fallen for one of them.

She knew what he was.  

She'd stalked and destroyed enough of them.

But this gentle.  Never threatening, never allowing her to see the predator within.

She lay beside him, softly brushing the hair from his forehead.  Placing her lips there, above his brow.

A tear threatened to escape.  A shuddering breath called it back.

She had made a mistake, forgetting who she was.

One last look at the crimson stained stake in his chest.  

He'd known what she was as well.  And, as well, had forgotten.

Joining Lance and Leeroy again, here are my 100 words inspired by Chasing Cars by Snow 

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Borrowed Time

His heart beat against her breast in time with her own. One arm about her waist, the sleeve of his black jacket indistinguishable from the black sheath embracing her.

They floated around the dance floor as one.  The orchestral notes weaving a spell of desire.

A whisper so soft. "Don't let go..."

The final notes faded, overcome by the insistant shrill of dream's end.  They are drawn away from each other. Fingers lingering, tracing the curve of cheek, sweep of lips.

Each committing the other to memory as they are pulled apart.

"I'll come back for you."
"I'll be waiting."

Joining Leeroy for the 100 Word Song.  The 100 words inspired by Mumford and Sons’ I Will Wait.
My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Where They Come From

My entry for  Emily Suess' Writers Week 2012 writing contest 

Inside the notebook were the words that would revive her.  She gotten a few lines written during lunch.  Once at home she could get back to her real love.

 Dorothy climbed the last few stairs leading to her efficiency apartment. She spent the half hour walk home from her monotonous office job composing the next piece of her personal world.

By the time she opened the door, she had a crowd of characters following her. All telling their stories, and where they fit, and what place they lived, and how they dressed. She shooed them off for a moment as she went to the “almost a kitchen” and started her coffee pot.

After changing to sweats and pouring the fresh coffee into a mug, Dorothy headed to her cluttered desk. Several well used notebooks shared space with a sleeping laptop and plain lamp that she’d left on before she’d gone to work.

She settled into her chair and flipped though a few pages before deciding where to start. Before she picked up her pen, she lit a tall candle. Once the flame bloomed steadily, she switched the lamp off.

She began to write. From behind the candle holder a tiny gargoyle peeked out. He’d been in hiding since the harsh incandescence of the lamp had chased away the shadows. Dorothy smiled indulgently as the little creature played atop the piles of unpaid bills and grocery ads. She continued to write.

As a castle began to erect itself next to the silent laptop, the gargoyle found a scaly tail beneath an overdue notice for the electric. A small puff of smoky annoyance reminded Dorothy she needed to take care of that. Tomorrow.

Scratch and scribble, the pen picked up speed. The ink on paper barely keeping up with the flow of words from Dorothy’s world. The gargoyle, worn out with aggravating the dragon, curled up around a pencil holder and drifted off to sleep. A knight leaned on his broadsword, watching the tale grow over Dorothy’s shoulder. The castle completed its wardrobe with a colorful pennant on its uppermost tower.

There was one last flicker as the candle wick finally gave in to the puddle of wax at its base. Dorothy looked up, startled by the dark. The pen in her hand still on the page. The river of thoughts coming to a stop.

She flipped the lamp on sadly. The castle faded, the little gargoyle jumped up in a huff and climbed inside the pencil holder. The knight sheathed his sword and disappeared with the blade. Dorothy took time to grab a sandwich, then showered and headed to bed. Her dream peppered sleep bringing new characters and creatures to fill more notebooks.

As she readied to leave for work the next morning, Dorothy gazed longingly at her desk. The gargoyle braved a hopeful peek from the pencil holder, blinking in the glare. When Dorothy grabbed her purse and turned to the door, he slid back down in a pout.

She started her trip and let her mind slip into her other world. The shadow of the knight walked beside her. A bubbling cauldron rolled along behind, trying to catch her attention. A gaggle of fairies flitted around her head, giggling at some inside fairy joke.

Whether or not it was the knight, the cauldron, or the fairies that distracted Dorothy, she didn't see the light change. She stepped off the side-walk in front of the car.

The people gathered around didn't notice the crying knight kneeling next to her, or the fairies sitting in uncharacteristic silence on the lip of the cauldron. They were completely unaware of the grief-stricken gargoyle that had arrived within minutes on the back of miniature dragon.

Nor did they see the figure of a matronly woman in ancient robes reach gently to take Dorothy’s hand and pull her upright. The woman looked at her skeptically.

“I don’t know” she said.

“Don’t know what?” asked Dorothy. The gargoyle had perched protectively on her shoulder and was glaring at the other woman.

“This creature says you write. Is that so?”

Dorothy thought about the many notebooks full of half finished stories that covered her desk and filled its drawers. “Well, yes. Sort of. Mostly I guess I just scribble.” She thought sadly of her unfinished novels and the characters she’d be leaving behind.

“Scribbles, eh.” The woman reached over and scratched the little gargoyle’s ears. “Well, Dottie, I suppose you'll do.”

“Uh, my name is Dorothy. And I'll do what?”

“Your new job, Dottie Scribbles. I got your resume, you're hired.”


“On a probationary basis of course. But, yes, you are now a Muse.”

writers' week writing contest

Friday, September 28, 2012


the prompt: We want to know what your goals and ambitions are for your writing, in 300 words or less. 

A long time ago, I used to make up stories. Write them down and sometimes illustrate them.

I took creative writing in high school. Even a poetry class.  I wrote. I have little journal books of crappy teen angst poems. The stories I wrote?  I don't know where they are. Long decomposed in some landfill I expect.

It all got lost.  In growing up and boys and work. Then motherhood and marriage.  Yes the mommy part came first.

The stories were still there. Locked in my head. Told and retold to the invisible passenger as I drove my intergalactic fighter or horse drawn cart to work or the grocery.

Pieces of elsetime.  Glimpses of otherwhen.

I can remember my mother telling me long ago she could see me at a typewriter, mixed drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, cranking out books.

Didn't happen.


But I have taken a step. Sitting in front of a keyboard, coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other.  Learning how to pull  pieces and glimpses of elsetime and otherwhen out of my head and put them together.

Telling those stories.  Flying my magic carpet through the Internet, babbling away to You, my invisible passengers.

My Goal?


Don't stop.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

everybody knows

You were all mine once. There was none could come between us. My eyes were for you and yours for me. Smiles and tears were shared with each other.  Our lives intertwined, our hearts beat as one.


You leave me for another.  Denial overflows my eyes as I watch you go.  I keep my pain within my heart and wish you well because I know.

Everybody knows.

This day.

Your tiny feet fill grownup shoes. Your little hand outgrows my own and reaches for another.

Everybody knows you'll place your heart in that other's hand, and walk away together.

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Friday, September 21, 2012


Write On Edge: Red-Writing-HoodThis week we asked you to use the words “candlestick”, “scarlet”, and “library”, inspired by one of my favorite movies (and games) Clue: The Movie.

The three boys stood in the center of the room. They supposed it could have been called a library once. There were books, though so heavy in dust they could barely make out the edges, much less the titles. Tattered wall hangings were mostly hidden by ropey cobweb drapes.

The room smelt damp and moldy. No air moved, yet dust motes danced about in the light of a flickering candle

The old man, who claimed to be a sorcerer stood behind a wooden lectern, his face eerily lit by the same candle. The four foot candlestick it sat atop was intricately carved with leaves and beasts that twitched with each flicker of the flame.

He looked the boys over. Young street toughs, more full of themselves than sense. They chuckled loudly with false bravado. Sadly they were all he had for the task at hand.

Finally he addressed them. “You believe you can take on this quest? You are certain you can complete this task I ask of you? You understand, once you accept, there is no failure.”

One of the boys stepped forward, “We’re here, ain’t we. You said we get paid up front for this.” He looked at his friends for support, their nods urged him on. “Well, show us the money, then we’ll get the job done.”

“Will you now. Then you won't object to signing an agreement?”

The boy rolled his eyes, “Whatever, yeah, we can sign ,you just pay up front, like you said.”

“Very well, we shall proceed.” The sorcerer opened the book that lay on the podium and read the details of the contract aloud.

When he finished, one by one the young toughs stepped forward to sign. Each surprised by the prick of the pen and the scarlet ink that forged the geas and bound them to their fate.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The New House

Katherina fell in love the minute she saw the house. A small bungalow tucked between two old oaks on a quiet cul-de-sac.  The living room had a dining nook at one end with a little bay window looking into the back yard flower garden. The kitchen was tiny but efficient. She chose the larger of the two smallish bedrooms for herself.  The other would be Sam's room.

The next month was a whirlwind of paper signing and packing. She'd acquired more than she had realized in her five years at the apartment.

Finally came moving day. Or days. Lugging boxes from her upstairs flat to the borrowed pick up, then up the long walk to the bungalow. Her best friend, Jesse was there to help.

Together they spent a weekend moving boxes from room to room. Katherina quickly discovered she wasn't nearly as organized as she had thought. Just as the friends believed they'd made progress, they found items out of place. Bath towels in the pantry or toothpaste in the fridge.

"Jesse, for real, are you getting enough rest?  You're putting stuff in the weirdest places, girl!"

"Not me, lady.  So its either you or you got spooks. I vote for the spooks." Jesse looked at her friend thoughtfully. "I'm serious. Haven't you noticed anything odd about this place. "

Katherina rolled her eyes, "The only odd thing I've noticed is where you store pasta."

"What?" Jesse found Katherina pulling a box of spaghetti out of her sock drawer. "See!! I so would not put spaghetti with socks.  But,something is. This place is starting to creep me out. I feel watched and I keep catching shadows out of the corner of my eye."

Katherina laughed at her friend, "I think you're just over tired and probably hungry.  I know I am, I'm starving!"

Jesse remained unconvinced, but jumped at a chance to get out of the little house. "Ok then, lets go out to to dinner and celebrate your new home. I'll even buy."

"I will certainly take you up on that offer. Besides, I think everything is good enough here to call it ready to live in.  And just in time, I turned my apartment keys in this morning."

Jesse asked, "Sam is at your mom's?"

"Yep. I'm going to pick him up tomorrow after work. I really miss him, but all the activity would've just been too much for him."


After dinner with Jesse, Katherina spent the rest of the evening hanging her clothes in the closet and setting up Sam's bed and toys in the second bedroom.

Finally about midnight she lay down in her new bedroom, the busy days catching up with her.

As she began to drift off to sleep a loud crash brought her upright and awake. "What the.." She turned on the beside lamp and slipped her feet into slippers. Cautiously she padded down the short hallway to the living room. She could find nothing to account for the sound.

"Must have been dreaming."  She headed back to bed making a mental note to thank Jesse for giving her the heebie jeebies. She didn't see the shadowy figures watching from the kitchen.

Bexel and Prigue watched her pad back to bed.  Two shadowy demonics in training.  They'd been excited for the chance to terrorize their assigned victim.

"Harumph!" said Bexel.  "This one's a skeptic.  We'll have to work harder to get a rise from her."

Prigue nodded, "That and she's so tired she's not even paying attention.  Just wait 'til she brings little "Sam" home, though.  Then the fun will start!"

When Katherina left for work the next morning, the pair of amateur evil-doers began plotting.


It was late by the time Katherina and Sam arrived at their new home.

"Good thing we ate at Gramma's, huh sweetie.  You can explore a little, then it's bedtime, I've got your bed all set up for you."

Sam had been settled into his room and Katherina was sound asleep when Bexel and Prigue decided it was time to introduce their presence.

They stepped boldly into Katherina's room.

"What d'ya wanna do first, Bexel?  Levitate her? Just throw stuff around?"

"Hang on a minute, there's something weird here..." Bexel eyed the figure lying under the covers.  "What's that shadow over her chest?"

Suddenly the room erupted with twin beams of angry green fire.

"OH NO!!! Don't look Prigue!!!"

Too late.  "Eeep!"  Pfssst.  A light dust of black ash floated gently to the carpet where the demonling had been.  Bexel retreated quickly to the hallway.

Sam yawned smugly as he stretched and flexed one long clawed paw.  He closed his eyes, twitched an ear toward the door and waited.

Bexel gathered his nerve and peeked around the doorjamb.  Sam simply opened one slit of an eye.

"Ack!"  Pfssst.  Another small pile of ash.

Katherina stirred, "Sam, sweetie, you miss Mommy?"  She ruffled his fur and scratched his ears as he curled into her.  "Making sure the house is free of vermin?"

Sam purred contentedly to himself.  "It is now."

Sunday, September 16, 2012

The Coffee Crew

Old men, retired. They sit at their favorite table, resigned to decaf. Chatting about fishing or gardening. Or wives, often in past tense.

Pieces of their lives shed in hour long visits.

They come every day, same time, same chair, same faces.  Until one moves on.  To hospice or nursing home or beyond.

A vacant chair waits patiently.

Another day a newly old man joins. The remnants of youth drifting off. New old faces chat. The cycle continues.

Younger men eye the table warily, and watch their children grow too soon.  Knowing a chair waits for them to come along.

My shot at the 100 word song

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Friday, September 14, 2012

Ye Olde Shoppe

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-HoodThis week, I offer you this photo.(the photo is a sky full of red, yellow, and blue umbrellas)
Go where ever it leads.
You have a generous 500 words.

The showroom was eerily quiet. She preferred shopping early to avoid being rushed and distracted from her quest, but this emptiness was unsettling.

She'd found the shop while surfing the web. Her favorite dealer had closed its doors for good shortly after her last purchase.  She should have upgraded several years ago, but she hated buying from strangers.

She wandered haphazardly from one model to another. They were all fairly similar. The only difference she could discern was in color.  And only three colors seemed to be available.  Primary colors.

She sighed audibly and cast her eyes over the display one more time. The blue was not the right shade for her eyes.  The yellow would be impossible to keep clean.  The red, well the red was just too risque. After all, one must keep up appearances.

She clutched her bag a bit closer and brushed a speck of barely visible dust from her long skirt. Habit made her pat the hat atop her tightly coiffed hair. Just as she turned toward the exit a voice called out.

"I'm so sorry Miss, I'd no idea anyone was here this early."  The salesman looked genuinely apologetic, flashing a hopeful smile. "Please, may I show you the new options we offer in our most popular models?"

"Options?  Really all I require is a smooth ride and low maintenance." She took another step toward the door. "And I was specifically looking for something in a dark grey, or at least midnight blue."

"Oh. I'm afraid we don't have anything darker than the red."  The young man looked around the showroom dejectedly.  His shoulders slumped as his eyes reassured him there was no other color than the bright primaries.

She looked at him a little closer.  He was very young. Not much older than some of her charges.

"How long have you been employed here...Peter?" She looked back to his face from his name tag.

"This is my first week. It's been very slow.  Not many looking for these anymore I guess."  He shrugged sadly.

She chuckled, "No, not many. But enough.  Alright, young man, show me those options."

His delighted grin lifted her earlier unease, "Oh, yes!  Right this way Miss..."

"Poppins, Mary Poppins."  She followed him back to the display.  Maybe that red wasn't so bad after all.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012


Annie and Cal were relieved to get home to their little bungalow, home for fifty years.

The anniversary party was a chore.

Too many old people. Too many balloons.

Too many sappy love ballads.

Fifty years didn't make them fuddy duddies.

Cal plugged the iPod into the dock and kicked up the volume. He threw his arms around Annie. She feigned coquetry, then tucked into his chest.

Stones, Elvis, Doors and more filled the tiny home.

The couple danced, jiggled, and giggled from living room to kitchen to porch, where they dropped, groping like teenagers, to the old wooden swing.

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Friday, August 3, 2012


The Prompt: Olympic athletes are showcasing their talents on a global stage, and we’d like you to choose your best event for this Friday’s link up. Choose one of the following prompts and come back to link up on Friday.
The 100 Meter Sprint
100 words on a conflict, competition, or game.
The Road Race
300 words on a topic of your choice. The only catch? Your setting must be London, Beijing, or Rio de Janeiro.
Synchronized Diving
Partner up with another Write on Edge writer. You each have 450 words to write about a conflict between two characters; each writer should represent a single character’s point of view.(I chose the 100 meter sprint.)

"One, two, three, four, five, sixseveneightnineten!
Here I come!" 

"Oh no, you found me!"

I found you...I win!"

"Yes, you win."

"Let's race!  I'm racing!  Catch me!
Did I win?"

"You win."

"Yay!  I win!"

"Run with me!
Play with me!
Your'e it...close your eyes!

"I am, I am!
One , two ,three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten...ready or not, here I come!"

"Do you see me?"

"Yes, boy, I see you.
Ah ha!  I found you!
We win again!"

"Come on, Gramma!"

"Wait for me..."

"I love you Gramma."

"I love you too, Kiddo..."

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Time Gate

One of my writerly friends posted a picture of arbor, overgrown with vines.  This is the story that happened....

It was nearly dawn as Margy walked alone down the sidewalk. The path was uneven and empty but for the litter of earlier travelers. Her eyes watched her feet, but without seeing them. Her mind a confusing jumble of half formed thoughts and drug hazed images.

After too many losses too young, the embrace of narcotics became a siren call to her tired heart.

The figure behind her watched her stumble along. Her posture and inattention labeled her a target. The shuffling gait shouted to him, “None will miss this one. No one cares.”

Still, he was cautious, looking around for prospective witnesses. That caution was shattered by the careless kicking of a discarded soda can.

Through veil of drugs, Margy became aware of her stalker. Her body fought the drugged indifference of her mind as it struggled for self preservation.

Her feet quickened their unsteady pace, her eyes began to look for escape. They lit upon an overgrown garden in a long neglected urban park.

The arbor entrance was drenched in vines. The space beyond, a wilderness of wildflowers and high grass. In the slowly blossoming light, she could only hope for the cover of brush. She ducked through the arbor, her stalker just footsteps behind.

He stopped, confounded by her disappearance. The old lot was a tumble of weeds and trash cans. There was nowhere she could have have gone. No place to hide. Yet, gone she was.

Margy’s eyes adjusted to the brightening sky. The park was much larger than it had seemed from the street.

She cocked her head to listen, children, she could hear children laughing. As she ventured farther, she could see a playground.

A squeal of delight reached her. “Margy! Margy, over here! We’re so glad you made it!”

A smile flowed across her face, the first in years. As she started forward, she glanced at her feet. The pink lights of her favorite pony festooned sneakers flashed brightly with every step.

Monday, July 30, 2012

It's a Date

Remember when you said "I'd die for you"?

I do. You were so gallant. It made me shiver with delightful expectation.

Well, I think this is a good time to wrap that up.

I wont ask you to do it alone. I'll hold your hand until the end. I'll be right here, beside you. Watching.

I think something slow and meaningful would be best.

Perhaps an overdose of some narcotic. Those can be tricky though. Took much, too little, well you know.

Maybe a slow bleed. Yes, a controlled flow. You would just slowly fade away.

It will be perfect.

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Friday, July 27, 2012

Keeper of the Words

the prompt: A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a handwritten letter.

Age yellowed envelopes with three cent postage. The pages inside are unlined, scratched with ink.

So many letters, from 1947 to 1952. An aunt to her niece. The handwriting in a tight, formal style, learned many years before.

The earliest notes passed along news of friends and neighbors. Bits of happenings of other family members shared from other letters that traveled across the country. Filling out the remainder of the pages with descriptions of weather or the latest shopping trip.

And always, “How is the family? The Mister? The Boy? Yourself?, I can’t wait to see you again.”

The later notes remain happy, still full of news. But, “the stairs are harder to climb.” Or, “I’d write more often, but the arthritis…” And, “hope all is well with your family. I can’t wait to see you again.”

Then came the letters in a different hand. This one younger, looser, rounder. “I stopped to see your aunt today. But she didn’t live there anymore. The landlord told us where to find her. Going to see her tomorrow. Hope all is well with your family.”

“I visited your aunt today. She’s doing well, but seems to have trouble remembering… Hope you're feeling better.”

“She can’t be alone anymore, she wanders off. She doesn't like it here… She asks about you. Too bad you can’t come.”

The last letter is dated February 2nd, 1952. My grandmother, Minnie passed away February 20th, 1952. Her Aunt Mina, also known as Minnie, joined her January 28th, 1953.

I have boxes of letters written to my grandmother from many family members. Most are from her aunt. She was named for her Aunt Mina, and there seems to have been a special bond between them.  I wish I could see the letters she wrote in return.  I never knew this grandmother, she was gone before I was born, but the amount of letters and pictures give me little look at who she was.

Friday, July 20, 2012


Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood
The prompt:  I gave you a tiny poem by Robert Frost to inspire you this week:
The Secret Sits
We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Sionn of Clan MacGoulan kept his distrust of the old woman well hidden. He knew her power from experience, and she’d promised these would be the last tasks she’d require of him.

“Be here, the second full moon from today, boy. You'll take the child at birth.” Lillian told him.

“Does she know the child is being taken from her? What if it carries the same taint as its mother? She was clawed by those hell hounds, she’s cursed.”

Sionn couldn’t forget the scene inside the MacClarren clan chief’s house. Pools of blood, the mangled bodies of the clan. The mangled body of his twin brother, Taog, there for his wedding feast. His betrothed alone had survived, though not untouched.

Lillian’s sharp voice brought him back, “She’ll know when the child is gone. I’ll not have a squalling brat getting in my way.”

“But the curse…” Sionn started.

I know my business boy! The child is clean, and of MacGoulan blood. She is your problem. The mother is mine.”

“It’s a girl child? Are you sure, witch?”

Lillian snorted, “you call me witch, yet question my knowledge?” She glanced sidelong at him. “You have three boys. Be here, take your wife the girl child she wants.”


Annag knew Lillian would be angry that it was taking her so long to complete her errands. She’d make sure to fill both baskets well with the roots and herbs the old witch and sent her to gather.

Though her body was heavy with pregnancy, she felt surprisingly strong. Whatever brew the old woman had been forcing on her had been good for her. The limp from a childhood accident was nearly gone, though she still pretended it for Lillian.

She stayed for the sake of her unborn child. None of the neighboring clans would give her sanctuary. They all knew about her wounds and what they meant.

Annag prayed the end of her pregnancy would not mean the end of her immunity to that curse.

She’d been using the many errands to assemble a cache of supplies. When her child came, they’d escape this prison. She’d find a way to live clanless and raise her child.

As she approached the cottage, she heard voices. Her heart began to pound with fear as she recognized the voice of her once to be brother-in-law conversing with her captor.

“And what of Donnchadh’s blade? Have you found it yet? Is it with you?” Lilian demanded of sionn.

“I have not. Ive searched the ruins of MacClarren and the land around it. Perhaps the faerie reclaimed it.”

Lillian replied with scorn. “Faerie. Fool! Keep searching, I want that sword, it’s the only thing could have killed those beasts!”

Annag's eyes narrowed, she purposefully rustled the brush she had hidden behind. The voices stopped and she heard Sionn's feet hit the earth as he trotted away.

She limped heavily around the bushes, her baskets all but dragging the ground.

“What took you, girl? It can’t take all day to gather a few leaves.” Lillian was angry, and not entirely with Annag.

Annag dropped her eyes to the woman’s feet, “I’m sorry, milady. It’s hard, getting up and down. The babe is heavy in me.”

“You're weak. Perhaps more duties will strengthen you.” She sneered and turned away.

“Yes milady” Annag replied meekly. Her eyes glowed with hatred at the witch’s back as she thought, “You’ll never find my father’s blade.”

And a little more of Annag/Anne Marie's story....

Wednesday, July 18, 2012


     As sleep lounges in a corner refusing her invitation, Anne Marie's mind travels to the long ago.

     In the blush just before dawn, after a night of hunting those things that go bump, the memories taunt.

     Her daughter, born in a witches hut. A child she never held nor suckled. A child taken from her before her womb completed its business.

     All that she has to hold, is a silver thread wound tightly about a lock of hair.

     She has known her daughter's daughter, and the daughters after.

     Still, she'd trade the centuries for one touch of her newborn's hand.

I joined in the 100 Word Song, this week's track is "She Talks to Angels" by The Black Crowes.  This is another little snippet of Anne Marie/Annag's story.  There is more, I'm working on it...

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


     The room was comfortably cool. The walls colored in shades of peacock blue. Three of four lined with shelves from dark wooden floor almost to the eggshell ceiling. A lacy candelabra adding more to the decor than lighting.

     The fourth wall rose over a long oaken desk, just inside the door, filled with electronic paraphernalia. The industrious hum of hard drive was punctuated with bursts of cooling fan.

     Scattered dots of LED lights winked in blues, reds, and greens as the equipment attended its various tasks. Searching for specific words and phrases across the World Wide Web. Bookmarking and flagging those that matched the criteria set for it.

     From the fog gray suede of her chair, Anne Marie MacClarren looked up from her reading. She breathed in the scent of the space. The musk of old paper spiced with a variety of inks, that was subtly interlaced with the ozone of electronic exhalation.

     She scanned the rows of scrolls carefully sealed in protective tubes, and old leather-bound books. All well worn yet meticulously maintained. She'd spent countless years finding them, acquiring them, translating them, studying them.

     In recent times, countless hours copying the contents to drive, file, and disk. She'd compiled a searchable database from hundreds of years of study and discovery. Now, compacted into silver platters of ones and zeroes.

     She leaned back into the cushions, her eyes drawn back to the book in her lap. She chuckled to herself as she indulged in the once forbidden joy of reading for pleasure. Title page:  "Fifty Shades of Grey"....

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hoodthe prompt: You have 450 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about the forbidden or the taboo.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Dry Day

The sky bleached to white by heat while the wind blows furnaced air

Drawing the last moisture from leaves and crisping the lawn

As we sit in machine conjured comfort searching the heavens for clouds

Wishing for rain to pull us outside and gleefully jump in puddles

Wednesday, June 13, 2012


photo courtesy of Cabochons By Bev

Anne Marie MacClarren wandered though the markets. She hadn't been to London in decades. As she held the heavy silk of her skirts out the stinking mud, she silently questioned her choice to visit now.

She had lost any intent to purchase anything offered as she passed tables of smelly fish, rancid fowl, and moldy produce. Not at all appealing, the vendors no more appealing than their wares.

One ramshackle booth was piled with likely stolen trinkets and crudely crafted jewelry. She took a moment to look over the clutter. Upon occasion, a true treasure could be found in such a pile if one knew what to look for.

A pendant caught Anne Marie's attention. A slice of muddy green stone, edged with a thin band of copper and hung on a ribbon. The shadowy image of a woman in the center.

Her breath stopped as she recognized the silhouette.

The dirty young woman behind the table saw her interest. "That be a special charm, milady, I can make a good deal..."

"Where did you get this? Where is the rest of this stone?"

"Its one o' a kind..."

"Do not lie to me. Where is the rest of the stone?" Her breath was coming in gasps. She could feel panic tightening her chest.

The vendor took her distress for anger. She produced three more slices of the stone from a tattered basket behind her. Each bearing the same figure.

"Just these,lady. These are all 'ats left! The rest was sold ."

Anne Marie ripped them from the girl's grubby fingers,"How many! How many more are there! Do you have any idea where they are!"

"There was 13 my da' cut. I been sellin' 'em some days. I dun know who buys. I just collect my coin for 'em."

Anne Marie muttered an ancient curse as threw more than enough coin for the three pieces at the shaken girl.

The young woman scooped the coins up, a bit braver than she had been. "Crazy foreign woman," she muttered.

Anne Marie grabbed the woman's wrist. "I'm not the foreigner here, girl. My blood was old in this land long before you fathers knew this isle existed." She threw the girl's arm down and turned from the stall.

She left the narrow street and its overpowering smells. When she reached the tiny room she had taken for the night, she laid the slices of stone on the table.

The image was unmistakable in each piece.


She'd returned to her homeland after years of wandering, hiding from the voice that was always in her head. Years searching for a way to free herself from Lillian's grasp. Years to find the answer now tucked in her pack.

She had barely touched the ground of her birthplace when the witch confronted her.

"Annag, you've finally come back to me. There was no other choice, you know. You must always come back to me."

Anne Marie almost lost the nerve she'd summoned at the old witch's voice. "I am called Anne Marie now", she told the woman.

Lillian sneered, "Anne. And how precious, Marie, for your dead mother Mara. Come, Annag of no clan MacClarren, I have chores for you. You must remember who you owe your life to, girl. Everything will be alright now."

Those last words triggered the desperation, the hatred and fear. She reached into her pack, her fingers gripped the dull green orb.

As she pulled it out, balanced on the palm of her hand,the chant she'd learned began to flow from her terror dried lips. The words in a language more ancient than the old Gaelic of her childhood.

Lillian looked at her with mild curiosity. "What game do you pretend to play, child? What gibberish is this?" Then her eyes widened in shock, her jaw opened to utter a scream of denial as the stone began to glow.

There came no scream, the old witch was still, frozen by the power of the conjure. The glow became a pulse, and with each beat Lillian began to fade.

When the words stopped, Lillian was gone. Anne Marie held the stone in shaking hands. She felt drained, almost as faded as the witch had been.

She finally looked hard at the surface of the orb. It was dull green once again. But as she studied it closer, she could see the ghostly image of a woman, her eyes wide, her mouth open in an eternal silent shriek.


Anne Marie could still hear the voice. "It will be alright." But it never was. It was never alright again.

you can read more about Anne Marie/Annag here and here and here too