To Tide You Over - What do you think?

A dear friend has just reminded me that I have been completely unsociable since, and I find this hard to believe, JUNE.




I plan to update the blog properly tonight, but for now, here are the tentative/initial covers for my upcoming book-y progeny (expected to hit Amazon officially this Spring)... so really, I do have a really good excuse...well, this time, anyway.  I believe that if you click each picture, it will expand, and you will actually be able to read the words.



SCHRODINGER -- MY VERSION

SCHRODINGER -- MY VERSION
Copyright SEPT 30, 2010
Word count: 70


Let's say reality is Schrodinger's cat,

......intangible, ineffable,

open the box and say it is,

but I stand beyond the box and listen,


my hand on the outside,


fingers rough against ridged cardboard

I cannot see the reality that is so neatly contained,

but,



oh, I can hear it!






Purring through my fingers,
Rubbing hard against the thin barrier of the board,


Crying
Constantly,
Reminding me to


let


it


out.

And More Good News On the Horizon

Been a busy few weeks on my end.  I've just completed the first draft of AGGIE WINKUM AND THE SNOOTAGUS, a rewrite (from memory) of an original (lost) story by my great-grandfather.  Really felt a need to get that down quickly while I could still remember it.  My goal is to get it tight and perfect in as few drafts as possible, so I plan to be on the next draft in two weeks (God willing and the creek don't rise)


This book will be sold individually, but will also be available as the first of the five stand-alone stories in
The Bickerstaff Compendium of Wonderful Things

You can check out the Amazon page here

Next on my list, resorting the shuffled manuscripts of the other four stories (as several pages got mixed together when they fell out of their folder -- every writer needs a helper cat and a small boy to "help" keep things organized), and then a re-type and verbal sanding of The Woon Of Bink. 

Good News On The Horizon

My book, "Hum A Few Bars... : A Collection of Short Stories and Poetry" is inching closer to final approval mode (Jon's still double checking certain tax questions) but it really will be available on Amazon soon (yes, really and truly it IS going to happen!) -- though the finished product may have more pages than are currently listed.



To check out my official Amazon Author page (and get a quick look at the cover), go here:
I'd really appreciate it if you would take the time to preview some of my work in this book, here:


and please help me out by answering the questions you find there -- I'd really appreciate your time and help in this matter.

UNTITLED

UNTITLED

Copyright: 2010
Word count:
Written in response to a YCW challenge.  Also a fairly accurate description of our life in the first two years of parenthood.  The good news is that he sleeps quite well now. The bad news is that it's now my allergies that keep me up all night. :P

I want to sleep. I feel the need of it tearing at me like teeth into chicken… There are shreds of me left on the bone. He looks at me with those grey-blue eyes and grins, an invitation, just before he dives headfirst into the playpen, arms outstretched, to do a perfect tuck and roll from the open top of the pen. He bounces, grins, unhurt, his look saying what he can’t :“Aren’t I clever?!”

“Yes, yes.” I mumble, trying to detangle him from the nylon mesh and aluminum. Oh, God, I want sleep.


“Eat. Eat.” He says, and makes exaggerated chomping motions with his teeth.


“Eat. Eat. Got it.” I put him in his highchair, trying to convince the suddenly thrashing, flailing child that, yes, he really does have to sit down .Time is slowing down to watch the scene, rubbernecking ghoulishly as I try to settle my child. Finally his bottom touches down, and with the skill of a surgeon, I assemble the four straps to fasten him in safely. Two clicks. A flip of the remote, and something soothing and bright comes on the screen. A push of a button, and I slave over a hot microwave to bring sustenance for my dear one.


Thirty minutes later, his show is over, and I am picking carrots off of the floor and pulling noodles from his hair. He shifts suddenly, and the bottom pocket of his vinyl bib catches on the tray, spilling soupy remainder all over the third outfit of the day.


“Eat. Eat.” He burbles. I wipe him down with the washcloth, sort of rough and catlike. He grins again, and I grin too. I still want sleep, but he is cute. He’s always been cute. I snuggle him to me, and another magical flip of the remote, and the room is filled with soft chirps and harp music. He settles in, little hands curling and uncurling, kneading at my heart like kitten’s claws.


Those grey-blues slowly close…a wide blink between mile long lashes…and then down. He seems more solid, heavier. All innocence. All sweet. I am waiting for three more songs to make sure he’s completely out…now two…now one, nodding in time to new-age chords, trying to stay awake a little longer.


I dance now, moving slowly from the couch…twirling quietly around three of his largest, loudest,  most motion-sensitive toys…a ginger step over his rocking horse… a scuffle with a doorknob that has taken part of my shirt prisoner…frantic that I almost dropped him trying to get beyond it.


I hold my breath. Now for the trickiest part: Tiptoeing into his bedroom, trying to avoid all of the sarcastic creaking boards…to lower him into the depths of his crib.


Down…


And down….


And safe…


And out.


So tired. I retrace my obstacle course and amble to my room, to catch up on what I missed out on the two nights before. The fan whirs, the cat snuggles into the crook of my right knee. The sheet is cool… and sleep finally comes for me

As the phone rings. Its echoes have barely died away when they are replaced by the emerging wail of the once-downed child.


My stomach becomes a Gordian-knot. I can feel it happening, shifting, swirling and tight. I reach for the phone, listen to the cheerfully recorded female voice, and curse the birth of telemarketers everywhere.

It's a "_MAJOR_ AWARD" !!!

The Award given to those whose

 "Positivity and Creativity Inspire Others".

The Art of Encouragement may be one of the most underrated aspects of writing...or perhaps of anything in life.  How amazing it is to know that someone is thinking of you, believing in you, seeing that spark within you when you feel uncertain in your steps, and the right words simply won't come. The Art of Encouragement is always more a matter of timing, enthusiasm and sincerety than of perfect wording. It is a gift, and when given freely it always returns to you to brighten your heart. 

======================================
The Rules of the Sunshine Award are as follows:

1. Place the Award on your Blog or Within Your Post.
2. Pass the Award on to Twelve (12) Sunny Bloggers -- those whose "Positivity and Creativity Inspire Others!"
3. Link the Nominees in Your Post.
4. Tell the Nominees They've Recieved the award by commenting on their blogs.
5. Share the Love and the Link of the Person from whom you've received the award

Optional Additional Rules (In Honor of St. Patrick's Day)

• Share one lucky fact about yourself.
• List 3 things you do when you need to brighten up your day.

These are the Twelve Sunshine Bloggers
that I nominate for the SUNSHINE AWARD.
Some of them may not immediately seem the most obvious choice, but I always come away with something positive and wonderful from each of these sites.

• Blogden Nash for keeping alive the joy that is Ogden Nash
• Birdykins: fly. crash. repeat   for beautiful lyrical words ( I wish I could write so well)
• An Explorer's View of Life    for endurance
• Basic Joy  for bright pictures and pretty words
• Chase Images for that which is beautiful
• Chicken Counting for making the most of tiny moments
• Chris Guillebeau Page hosting  The Art of Nonconformity Blog  for a fascinating take on everything
• Collecting Raindrops for so many lovely things
• Dad Gone Mad for wit
• Diamonds and Toads
• Doobleh-vay for lovely pictures and much brightness
• Weird Harrogate -- for showing us around Imagination's Home Town

"...and I'd like to thank the Academy... and Rita
for locking the doors to the theater when I went out to the lobby to get popcorn... "
*And I'm played off stage by the "Wrap It Up" music....Kanye doesn't even have a chance to swipe the mike.*

All jokes aside...

Thank you, Rita at Writer's Quest , for brightening my heart by nominating me for this award. Thank you to the YCW crew for letting me lock horns with you, for challenging me with your wit, your experiences and your wonderful, wonderful words. Thanks, also, to my ornery husband...for being supportive of my writing and getting me back into gear. To all of you, who have seen wonders in me that I have not yet seen myself, I am in your debt for believing in me. Thank you as well to all of the bloggers I have nominated, for allowing me to see bits of your lives, your minds, and your hearts.  I find all of you to be inspirations.

Lucky Fact:  I know how the story ends.

3 Things to Brighten My Day:

• I turn up the music and sing (very, very badly).
• I go for a drive when I can.
• I hug my husband and watch my son dance (and he dances sooo much better than I can sing).

UNTITLED

UNTITLED

Copyright: 2009
Word count:
Written in response to a YCW challenge…”That night the snow started falling…”

That night the snow started falling steady and hard…and as I hunched against the thick grey blocks of the school’s wall, I felt the cold tear chunks out of my stomach like a shark gulping down bites of seal. I was sixteen, in a light jacket, a short sleeved shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and no gloves or hat. I had the corner of a Kleenex in my pocket, nestled between a gum wrapper and a leaking pen. I had dressed for the heat, the repressing wall of heat in the auditorium and the glaring stage lights...not this cold. Certainly not for this cold. Sixteen, and God’s personal fool. My dad had dropped me off at the end of the side walk, but had to get the rest of the family to their destination in the next ten minutes. The taillights had blinked, turned, and faded out long before I yanked at the doors to the school, and I only discovered that the doors were locked because I nearly dislocated my wrist and elbow mid-yank.

I cussed and growled and snapped at the wind, and it responded by slashing me with knives of cold. Long machetes digging deep into my gut…the kind of cold where your teeth chatter hard enough to chip, where your torso hits the shriek that is that horrible, horrible cold and your innards pull back up in your body so hard you’d think they’d get whiplash. I circled the building, pulling at frozen handles with fingers I was having trouble feeling. Every single one of them were locked…I stared up at the bricks…they seemed rather smug.

I was in a bad part of town, with the only safe haven I knew in the worst part of the bad part of town. I had no money, no warmth, and no ride home until eleven o’clock that night. I was trapped in a cage of icing air.

Hunching in a sheltered corner of the schools main patio, I stomped and huffed and MADE my teeth stop chattering. By force of will alone, I made my body cease shaking. It didn’t work for long.

As the night dipped down to twenty degrees, I kept myself warmed with the heated joy of plotting my revenge, clenched into a ball and cursing the person responsible for this fiasco between grinding, chattering teeth. I swore to myself that when I got home, or better yet, when I could feel my fingers again, I would choke the living crap out of someone…but the question remained. Who really was responsible for this fiasco? The one who had canceled rehearsal? The one that had garbled the message on the intercom? Or….

I had a sneaking suspicion that once my fingers wrapped around the responsible throat, I’d be the one choking.

FIRST RULE

Copyright: JAN 2010

Word count: 86
It isn’t in my nature to willingly give up on people, but sometimes, even I know I can only do so much. The title of this poem comes from the first rule I learned about rescuing drowning victims: Don't drown yourself in the process.


I am throwing out life preservers
like petals on the water,
bread crumbs of rope and foam,
to save the people I see drowning in my wake.


It is my way of remembering them,
Of letting them know I’ll still pull them in to safety
Of letting them know I still care
That I am still here.


“Stop.” He tells me.
“If they decide not to drown,
they will choose to stand up.
The water isn’t that deep.”


The rope has blistered my hands,
My fingers are numb with strain,
As the faces of those I love drift past me on the waves
I will them, I beg them
to stand…


and I count the bubbles escaping their lips…

OBSERVING THE FORMALITIES

Copyright: OCT 21, 2009
Word count: 1988
You should know that there really is no excuse for this story.  I'm just getting that out there right now.  The idea for this one came after I witnessed what passed for a recent reality show. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living OR dead is purely coincidental. This is what happens to my brain when I get locked in a small room for hours on end with nothing but a keyboard and caffiene. It certainly isn't my best work, and at some point, I really need to go back through and sort it out, - but it amused me at the time and it wouldn't let my head alone until I wrote it out.


The room was small, with two chairs, a table, a time clock, two occupants, and an intercom that kept sputtering out a static-y. version of Sam Cooke's “Chain Gang” – the only song it ever played. The male occupant of the room had long learned to tune it out. The female occupant only heard herself, and she had been chattering inanely for quite sometime before she finally said something that got the distracted old man's attention.
“I'm sorry, “ he said. “I don't think I heard you correctly. What did you say you did again?”
“I said, I protest chickens. You know, Bok! Bok!”
Sisyphus simply stared at her, trying gamely and politely to not shake his head in disbelief. She was in her early twenties, blond in every conceivable sense of the word , with a voice like an excitable dolphin being ground into cement with railroad spikes. He could feel the bones of his inner ear flinch back in dismay every time she opened her vapid, effusive mouth, and had he been giving her his complete attention, his knew his whole body would have been cringing uncontrollably against the walls as well. She was above average pretty, with the requisite blue eyes and clear skin of her sort, but there was something off about the size or positioning of her nose that made her face appear out of balance, heightening the blithely out-of-focused look in her eyes. She was still pretty enough that even a dead man had to look her over, especially when she was wearing the most bizarre costume he had ever seen. Initially, it had been a gray suede catsuit that hugged her hills and valleys in a way that would make any self-respecting succubus rage like a Puritan grandmother. However, it was now an even more one-of-a-kind designer outfit – thanks in large part to the “improvements” the girl had taken upon herself to add to it. He did not know why she had chosen to affix row upon stringy row of tampons in squishy white spikes to the soft gray material. Or why she wore a double bandoleer of blown, colored eggs across both shoulders...but he knew, with a sinking, awful certainty that she would tell him, and he knew he would rather have another hundred years of his boulder crashing down onto his head and grinding his bones to dust on a daily basis than hear that particular explanation
He closed his eyes, and took three deep breaths. His trials had taught him patience, hell, his trials had literally smashed it into his head...and he had the feeling he would need every ounce he had earned: but the question was hanging in the air, and she was looking at him like an expectant puppy, and so... he was forced to ask.
“Why would you do that?”
“Oh, they're just filthy, nasty, useless things. I just can't tell you how much I just HATE useless things. It's bad enough that I'm allergic to chicken feathers, but seriously, they are just covered with bugs! They crap on their eggs. You can try to forget their bad attitudes, but they are so damned attention-seeking, and they still get so much press! I just don't get the fascination. Fried chicken, chicken cacciatore , blackened chicken...Blah! You can't walk out of your own home without being constantly bombarded with more advertisements for chicken. You can't even turn on your own radio or television without having someone try to shove this garbage down your throat. “
“Constantly bombarded...” mused Sisyphus, who was pretending to be reviewing his notes, but had really just noticed that two of his knuckles were sparkling. He absently brushed off the specks of quartz dust, and continued the expected conversation – in a tone miraculously devoid of any irony. “I can understand how that might be uncomfortable. For you.” He paused again, shuffling his notes.
“And when you are not, ah, protesting all things Chicken, what was your profession?”
“Profession?” she asked blankly? “Look, I don't know what you've heard, but any money I got was overboard and all that. For appearances.”
“I think you may mean 'above-board'. “ he answered calmly, thinking that had never missed every single ton of his boulder so much.”I was speaking of your career, your, ah, former jobs. Your work?”
And here, she laughed at him...it sounded the way tinfoil on molars felt.
“Oh, honey. I don't work. I told you. I appear. I get paid for showing up.”
“Ah.” he responded with another shuffle of his papers, ignoring the part of his mind that had was pointedly registering the fact that the groin seam on her cat-suit appeared to pull in all the way up to her nostrils. “Is that steady work?”
“Eh, so-so.” she answered. “Usually, Lenni – That's Lenni with an “I”, ya know-- my hubby-boy sets it up. On a slow week, we pretend we're fighting and leak it to the press. Sometimes, I buy him a hat – I got him this fabulous sombrero just last week -- and then we call the paps, and let them dish on it. It's a good gig, except for the week that they reported that I had crabs.” She sighed.” But right now, I'm really working my creative outlet --”
And here, Sisyphus's brain chimed in, “Is that what you're calling it now?” He kept his gaze fixed on the papers, forcing his face to remain a mask of interested politeness.
“-- and I've taken up singing.”
“Oh? Have you been singing long?” His voice broke slightly on the word, “long”, but she bubbled on without noticing.
“Hell, no! I had never sung a note before Lenni began producing my album two months ago. He says I'm a natural.” And even though Sisyphus had been given fair warning, and even as the question “a natural-WHAT?!” exploded across his cerebral cortex, she proceed to show him the full extent of her vocal abilities. Sisyphus only barely managed to keep his sanity by concentrating on the familiar memory of his boulder as it crushed his ribs into bone shrapnel that ripped splinters of raw agony through his internal organs. Somewhere, in the very depths of hell, demons paused in their work of torturing the damned, and as one, the creatures of Hell observed an awed moment of silence to the creature making that horrific and ungodly noise, for they knew they were truly in the presence of a Master.
She was convulsing so violently before his eyes, that he feared/hoped that she would just rip herself to shreds right there. Her body thrashed about as though each part was a separate, brainless entity – she could have been dismembered octopus tentacles undergoing electrocution – as she rubbed and sighed and wailed on the chair, on the walls, on him. Gradually, it dawned on him that what he had taken for a grand mal seizure of some kind was actually her attempt at evocative dancing...just as it gradually dawned on him that no matter which direction the rest of her body splattered into, her size 44D breasts NEVER moved an inch. For one horrible, horrible moment, Sisyphus panicked. He couldn't stop himself from thinking that the centuries of pain he had gone through before had only been a warm-up for the real punishment he was about to receive – but as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped, and with a few last jiggles and sloshes, the rest of her flesh settled back into a resting state underneath the sleek skin of the catsuit.
“Plus, the damn things never seem to get that they are supposed to be dead.” she gurgled. Sisyphus felt his back teeth twinge violently at her sugary tone, noting that somehow they were back on the topic of Chicken Protestation. As a protective defense, his brain began throwing him random non sequiturs – one of which was that an ostrich's brain was actually substantially smaller than an ostrich's eyeball...and he began to wonder about the size of her brain in comparison to the size of her eyes. With great effort, he pulled himself back to the task at hand. He glanced at the cheap clock ticking quietly on the wall, and felt an unfamiliar expression on his face...There it was again...the barest, most minute, most fleeting, shred of a hint of a shadow of an actual smile. As the seconds ticked away, he looked again at his papers...and then at the young woman in front of him.
“And what would you say is your favorite kind of music?” he redirected gently. His tone was nonchalant, but there was something about his eyes that would have made a more perceptive person vaguely uneasy. She just exuded a more-pronounced sense of barely restrained bounce.
“Hmm? Oh. I sing Pop...but really, I'm huge into Rock N' Roll. I mean I've been backstage at concerts that could just make your eyes pop right out of your head.”
Sisyphus grinned. He actually grinned. It had been so long since he had grinned, that it was a strange experience for him. He felt it akin to attaching a live eel to his face with Velcro, and it took several minutes for his facial muscles to remember the proper movements.
“Rock and roll? That seems remarkably appropriate. Yes, I think you'll be perfect for this position.”
“So then I'm hired?!” She squealed, bouncing her jiggling self up and down in delight – again, his brain noted that her sizable torso remained adamantly in place, with barely so much as a bob of assent. Out of the corner of his eye, Sisyphus noted the clock's second hand click firmly onto the black number twelve. He straightened, and for the first time in centuries, he held his head upright and looked a person firmly in the eye.
“Oh, yes.” He affirmed, gathering up his papers., and walked over to the time clock “This interview was simply a formality.”
“Oh, Lenni will be so proud! When do I start?”
“Oh, the job starts immediately. Just punch in your time card, and step through that door.”
“Punch a time card? “ Her eyes glazed over in confusion.”But, but, we haven't even talked about my fee yet. My Lenni is very insistent that I get proper compensation for my efforts.”
“You have my word that once you punch your card and open that door, you will get absolutely everything you could possibly deserve, and more.”
Her eyes widened as her body of its own accord stood up and walked to the wall beside the innocuous brown door. A moue of discontent marred her features as her hand reached out simultaneously with his, as they each picked up a thin piece of cardboard, and punched the cards into the clock. Sisyphus sighed, and a complete change came over his demeanor. He seemed taller. More relaxed.
The door opened, and her body took her inside. As it closed, Sisyphus calmly placed his sheaf of papers on the table, tidied them up, and then walked to the other door. Behind him, he could hear an ominous rumbling. In his head he ticked off the boulder's movements...here, it would hit a small crag and change direction...there, it would almost roll off the side of the cliff – but, NO! There it eddied around a bush...scattering pebbles in its wake...and now it would come, a maddened bull, all smash and noise....the first slow crush becoming a fast-moving brawl as it joyfully ground its victim into microscopic elements. A three minute pause for the reassembling process...and then the rumble began again... he shut the door behind him, muffling her choking screams. He couldn't help but note that her squawks and shrieks sounded like that vocal gyrations of agitated chickens.
“Rock and roll.” He mused, straightening his tie. “I think I'm finally starting to appreciate the gods' sense of humor.”

Bun In The Oven

A Bun In the Oven
Copyright OCT 6, 2009
Word count: 659
Now, settle down everyone, this isn't what you think. This story came about because of a w.g. challenge, namely to make a spooky story using elements that weren't actually scary. Um, I believe some "Thanks" should go to a BBC documentary, for dwelling on a subject that just messed with my head for weeks after. A certain amount of thanks should also go to my son's doppleganger, for getting me started. This is my first official attempt at Flash Fiction.



As usual, The timer went off just as the phone rang.


Liz-Beth sighed, and reached for the timer with her left hand and the phone with her right. Izzy dashed through the kitchen wearing Liz-Beth's best heels and favorite dress, and her brother, Bo, charged after his three-year old sister, whooping and leaping like an old-movie Indian --his spiky hair held back with a feathered headband --waving his neon T-Rex and a toy hatchet behind her screaming curls.


Liz-Beth did a quick spin-step around her brood, and laughed into the phone. "...Oh my God, I know -- Izzy! Get out of my dress...I'm wearing it when Daddy and I go out to dinner tonight. Yes, yes, I know... Kids. Can't live with 'em...can't send them to Abu Dhabi." With practiced ease, she arranged the infant's arms and legs on the cookie sheet, head in the center... but as usual, she had to wipe her hands off on a towel after she arranged the little boy's head. She never could keep that stuff off of her fingers, and it was so damned sticky. She realized after the fact that she had stained one of her best dishtowels. It just never failed.


She opened the oven door, and gently placed the cookie sheet in, checking that the oven temperature was at an even 265. Then, still wiping at her hands, she leaned against the island and nudged the oven door shut with her shoe...As an afterthought, she leaned over and flicked on the stove light so that she could keep an eye on things, and set the timer again. A soft orange glow covered the body parts, and she was particularly fascinated by the angelic glow around the little one's face. She couldn't help it, she started humming, and then she actually started singing.
“Well you must have been a beautiful baby...you must have been a beautiful boy...---Hmm? What? Oh, sorry, Mags...just a lot going on right now...He did? No. I don't believe it. That doesn't sound like Barry at all.”


Shoulder to phone, Liz-Beth made her way to her table, and pondered an assortment of ice-pick like devices, short, stubby handles, with nails of various sizes wedged into them. She tested one with her finger...admired its heft for a moment, and then selected a longer, thinner version of the same tool.


The timer went off again, startling her...and the reverberations of her children's' howls echoed down from the second floor.

“Oh, hold up a sec., Mags...You kids better knock it off. If I have to come up there, SoHelpMe – No, Bo, I don't care if you captured her fair and square. There are rules in this house, Hiawatha, and one of the big ones is that we simply do not scalp our little sisters! --Mags, seriously, you want some kids? Have I got a deal for you...one matched set, cheap! Bo! Leave her alone....if you two play nice for a few more minutes, I'll come up and read that new Hansel and Gretel book Nana got you.”


She grabbed her oven mitts and carefully, oh-so-carefully, removed the cookie sheet from the oven, then she gently placed the infant parts on a baking rack to cool.


“You're not even medium-rare, are you, little guy.” She mused. “Mags, I'm so excited....yes...I just finished baking my second one...he looks so sweet and innocent, even in this state...I swear I could just eat him up right now.” She shifted the phone to her other ear, and began rearranging the paints on the table, holding a skin-tone up for further consideration. “Ya know...when I first got into “re-borning”, I thought it was the silliest thing I'd ever heard of, but who knew you could make so much just re-sculpting and repainting dolls? If I can sell six more of these little cuties, we are totally going to the Bahamas!”