5 of 5 Stars A Paranormal Suspense Thriller?
For ten years Kal Hakala has been the Bureau of Supernatural Investigations' (BSI) top man, the longest surviving agent in its blood-soaked history. The World At Large has no idea that The World Under exists. And its ghouls, vampires, demons, zombies, and mythic monsters are growing increasingly restless.
In all his time with the Bureau, there has been no case Kal couldn't crack, no monster he couldn't kill. Then a plague of zombies comes to Denver, along with a vicious serial killer dubbed The Organ Donor....
When I first read this partial plot synopsis of Mark Everett Stone's book, Things To Do in Denver When You're Un-Dead, I was sure that I wouldn't care much for it. Happily, I was wrong.
My wife had received an Advance Release Copy of the book to read and review. She specializes in writing horror and relates to zombies, ghouls and such. Surprisingly, she seemed convinced I would enjoy reading it as well. I was less convinced.
To me, it sounded like Men in Black meets Hellboy meets Alex Cross meets Jack Reacher. It seemed likely to be a buffet dinner at the Cliche Cafe...pick one cliche from each of the columns and enjoy your reading meal. Ughh.
The book proved to be something exactly like that - only entirely different. While Mark DOES work in some tongue-in-cheek references to Star Wars, MiB and other well-known works, his book is much more indeed. It is a truly phenomenal cross-genre piece that best qualifies, perhaps, as a Paranormal Suspense Thriller...maybe.
Kal Hakala is a difficult protagonist to like at first. He is surly, cocky, rude, and very, very angry. As the BSI's most senior field agent, Kal has the Bureau's carte blanche to act and do whatever he wants, as long as he continues to perform for them. He seldom defers to authority, allows for no human weakness in his fellow agents and exists, for no reason other than, to destroy monsters.
Kal's dedication AND his rage are clearly shown. His motivation is to use the Bureau and its unique resources to exact vengeance on the near-mythic being responsible for the death of his sister. For their part, the Bureau is well aware of Kal's obsession and they stand fully ready to exploit it to their fullest advantage. It is one, decidedly, twisted symbiotic relationship indeed.
It's very difficult to say at what point I came to, not only like but, actively root for Kal. Mark so masterfully weaves his story that it's inevitable to also see within Kal his sorrow, his self-hate and the pain that his revenge-quest has caused him. He is a classic example of the flawed Tragic Hero. He will endure any hardship to protect and defend others from harm, while sustaining brutal, crippling damage to both his mind and body. He IS a hero, albeit an unlikely one.
You must read this book to appreciate why so much of my review centers on Kal. He IS the story. Without his presence, the story would not be as compelling. The tale, certainly, does not lack for an excellent ensemble of other characters. From an assortment of Agents both past and present, some rather quirky and bizarre support staff, assorted magicians and even a cyber-ghost, there are no shortage of players to like and empathize with.
I would be VERY remiss if I didn't include a cautionary warning to Mark's potential readers. Kal's feelings of loneliness and loss are not without a strong basis. NO...I repeat, NO character in the book should not be considered to be expendable...at any time. So, feel free to like, love or cheer for any or all of the folks you meet in the story. BUT, please be prepared for any, or perhaps all, of those people to suffer a painful, ignominious, final indignity resulting in their elimination at ANY given point. It can happen and likely may happen. It's okay. It is not a capricious move on Mark's part but merely a logical progression of events and possibilities.
In conclusion, if you crave a really enjoyable Paranormal Suspense Thriller to read, THIS is your book. It grabs you from the very first page and drags you along (snarling for you to keep up) and dumps you at the feet of one of THE most unexpected plot twists of an ending that I have ever read. While this novel is Mark's first, it reads as a cohesive, refined product that leaves me salivating for its forthcoming sequel. It is a unique story uniquely told. Kudos Mark for this debut work.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
A Bit of Fun
Gralnak stood on the balcony of his house and looked through teary eyes at his fields. Who or what could have wrought such destruction to his crops?
He had been feeding his small herd of tholeks when his son, Krelton, had burst into the barn shreiking like a madman for his father. Once Gralnak got the excited youth under control, he listened sceptically to the boy's assertions that something had destroyed all of the khala roots planted in the fields to the poleside of the farm.
At Krelton's frenzied insistence, the old farmer dropped the rest of the feed into the hopper and followed the boy outside. A short walk later, his worst fears were realized. The boy may have overestimated the damage a bit, but Gralnak's experienced eyes confirmed that someone or something had decimated nearly the entire crop.
His sole crop for this season was the khala roots. They were labor-intense to grow but yielded significant profit if grown properly. Gralnak had wagered the future of both his farm and his family on his belief that this crop would, not only, recoup the losses of the last two seasons but would insure comforts for some time to come. His scorched fields guaranteed that would not be so. He wept openly.
Halos Frenik, Prefect Constable, barely listened to the voice on his comm unit. Not Gralnak too, he thought. It seemed every farmer and rancher in Dushala Prefecture had lost their sanity in the last ten cycles.
His office was bombarded every cycle with call after call, each more fantastic than the one before. Strange lights and noises in the nightside skies many claimed. Others ranted of their animals burned or horribly mutilated. The report from Gralnak was to be added to those who spoke of crops burned and destroyed. Gralnak went so far as to say unusual patterns or designs had marred the land. Gralnak's balconied house was one of only a handful in the Prefecture that allowed the lands to be observed from an overhead view.
Constable Frenik was dutifully sympathetic and understanding of Gralnak's losses. With bureaucratic precision, he parroted the statements on the information release that had arrived from the Office of Planetary Defense. All incidents were being investigated...important to remain calm...nothing to substantiate rumors...and so on. Frenik knew that Gralnak was not much mollified. To be honest, the constable felt foolish being forced to supply the absurd explanations. Yet, he was a loyal servant of the State and did as he was told.
The small deep-space exploration ship completed its latest geosynchronous orbit of the planet. Seven days left until the survey was completed, Jeffries noted. Tossing the remains of a ration pack into the recycler, he swivelled around to his partner, Thorssen.
"So what ya say, buddy? Ya up for another foray planetside tonight", he asked with a big grin.
"Aw geez Jeffries, I dunno about that. This beast burns up a LOT more fuel when it goes atmospheric. And it took me like four hours to replace the coil you burned up on the portside chemical laser makin' those dumbass crop circles. Besides, do you KNOW how pissed off Corporate would be if they found out we were dickin' around with the indigenous species here? We'd be lucky to finish off our contract runnin' garbage barges through the Antares Cluster."
"Yeah...fine. Have it your way, ya spoilsport.", Jeffries snarled. "Just like them Corporate jackholes to deny a hard-workin' stiff a little bit of fun during his downtime." Still grumbling, he returned to monitoring the survey data feeds.
He had been feeding his small herd of tholeks when his son, Krelton, had burst into the barn shreiking like a madman for his father. Once Gralnak got the excited youth under control, he listened sceptically to the boy's assertions that something had destroyed all of the khala roots planted in the fields to the poleside of the farm.
At Krelton's frenzied insistence, the old farmer dropped the rest of the feed into the hopper and followed the boy outside. A short walk later, his worst fears were realized. The boy may have overestimated the damage a bit, but Gralnak's experienced eyes confirmed that someone or something had decimated nearly the entire crop.
His sole crop for this season was the khala roots. They were labor-intense to grow but yielded significant profit if grown properly. Gralnak had wagered the future of both his farm and his family on his belief that this crop would, not only, recoup the losses of the last two seasons but would insure comforts for some time to come. His scorched fields guaranteed that would not be so. He wept openly.
Halos Frenik, Prefect Constable, barely listened to the voice on his comm unit. Not Gralnak too, he thought. It seemed every farmer and rancher in Dushala Prefecture had lost their sanity in the last ten cycles.
His office was bombarded every cycle with call after call, each more fantastic than the one before. Strange lights and noises in the nightside skies many claimed. Others ranted of their animals burned or horribly mutilated. The report from Gralnak was to be added to those who spoke of crops burned and destroyed. Gralnak went so far as to say unusual patterns or designs had marred the land. Gralnak's balconied house was one of only a handful in the Prefecture that allowed the lands to be observed from an overhead view.
Constable Frenik was dutifully sympathetic and understanding of Gralnak's losses. With bureaucratic precision, he parroted the statements on the information release that had arrived from the Office of Planetary Defense. All incidents were being investigated...important to remain calm...nothing to substantiate rumors...and so on. Frenik knew that Gralnak was not much mollified. To be honest, the constable felt foolish being forced to supply the absurd explanations. Yet, he was a loyal servant of the State and did as he was told.
The small deep-space exploration ship completed its latest geosynchronous orbit of the planet. Seven days left until the survey was completed, Jeffries noted. Tossing the remains of a ration pack into the recycler, he swivelled around to his partner, Thorssen.
"So what ya say, buddy? Ya up for another foray planetside tonight", he asked with a big grin.
"Aw geez Jeffries, I dunno about that. This beast burns up a LOT more fuel when it goes atmospheric. And it took me like four hours to replace the coil you burned up on the portside chemical laser makin' those dumbass crop circles. Besides, do you KNOW how pissed off Corporate would be if they found out we were dickin' around with the indigenous species here? We'd be lucky to finish off our contract runnin' garbage barges through the Antares Cluster."
"Yeah...fine. Have it your way, ya spoilsport.", Jeffries snarled. "Just like them Corporate jackholes to deny a hard-workin' stiff a little bit of fun during his downtime." Still grumbling, he returned to monitoring the survey data feeds.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
A Latinum Library Review: Kid
5 of 5 Stars Epic Horror in a Compact Size
My first acquaintance with the writing of Steve Emmett came through my wife, a fellow writer of horror. She read and greatly enjoyed Steve's debut novel Diavolino. I subsequently read it and assessed it to be excellently crafted horror writing. So it was with great pleasure we received the short fiction piece Kid from Steve. It is an axiom that writers are their own worst critics. Steve is no exception. He admitted the piece was, basically, something to keep his presence in the writing world alive while he completes the sequel to Diavolino. He expressed concerns that Kid might not be very good. Steve needs to lighten up on himself and take a bow for a truly remarkable work of short fiction.
Is the premise behind Kid unique or a journey through uncharted territory? No, it is not. It takes the time-tested idea of "Be careful what you wish for." and trots it out with Steve's inspired take on it. Is it a "cookie cutter" tale made in the image of so many others just like it? No. While relying on a standard plot idea certainly bears the potential for that stigma to arise, Steve dodges that bullet nimbly. How exactly does he pull that off? Simple. The appeal of a story often resides not in what it tells but in how it is told.
In my review of Diavolino I made note of the fact that the characters were much more thumbnail sketches rather than portraits. They provided the reader with just enough substance to show they existed without giving you much backstory to invest them with more solidity. I maintained that the story carried the day and that the reader was given just enough of a look at the players as was necessary, without slowing down the pace of the novel.
I am unsure whether my review inspired Steve or whether he has been pumping iron in the sense of developing his writing skill, but his characterization of Kid is night and day different from the characters of Diavolino.
Without spoiling the read, I will simply say that Kid is an individual of unique physical and psychological qualities. Steve truly shows his chops as a writer by providing such wonderfully descriptive prose as to seemingly make Kid step off of the page and stand for your inspection. So descriptively does Steve show you Kid, that the character becomes viablel, palpable and all-too-hideously realistic. It is as if he actually exists to far more than the mind's eye.
It is an unfortunate fact that some short fiction winds out for the reader a potentially longer, more involved story and then must rush to reel in its various aspects within the confines of things such as space and wordcount. Does Steve's foray into short fiction suffer that fate? Thankfully, it does not. Having written my share of short fiction, I admit to jealousy over how precisely Steve writes this story. He makes the pace and the content march side by side from an opening that hooks the reader to an evolved storyline and then terminating in a timely and thoroughly resolved ending. It is a thing of beauty indeed.
If I had any criticism to offer here, it would be that the piece ends all to soon and leaves the reader wanting more...now! I think this tale would be a far more fitting ensemble piece for a collection of, say, five or more stories of comparable length than as a stand-alone. I can only hope that Steve takes this idea to heart and favors us with more of his masterfully crafted short works...soon.
My first acquaintance with the writing of Steve Emmett came through my wife, a fellow writer of horror. She read and greatly enjoyed Steve's debut novel Diavolino. I subsequently read it and assessed it to be excellently crafted horror writing. So it was with great pleasure we received the short fiction piece Kid from Steve. It is an axiom that writers are their own worst critics. Steve is no exception. He admitted the piece was, basically, something to keep his presence in the writing world alive while he completes the sequel to Diavolino. He expressed concerns that Kid might not be very good. Steve needs to lighten up on himself and take a bow for a truly remarkable work of short fiction.
Is the premise behind Kid unique or a journey through uncharted territory? No, it is not. It takes the time-tested idea of "Be careful what you wish for." and trots it out with Steve's inspired take on it. Is it a "cookie cutter" tale made in the image of so many others just like it? No. While relying on a standard plot idea certainly bears the potential for that stigma to arise, Steve dodges that bullet nimbly. How exactly does he pull that off? Simple. The appeal of a story often resides not in what it tells but in how it is told.
In my review of Diavolino I made note of the fact that the characters were much more thumbnail sketches rather than portraits. They provided the reader with just enough substance to show they existed without giving you much backstory to invest them with more solidity. I maintained that the story carried the day and that the reader was given just enough of a look at the players as was necessary, without slowing down the pace of the novel.
I am unsure whether my review inspired Steve or whether he has been pumping iron in the sense of developing his writing skill, but his characterization of Kid is night and day different from the characters of Diavolino.
Without spoiling the read, I will simply say that Kid is an individual of unique physical and psychological qualities. Steve truly shows his chops as a writer by providing such wonderfully descriptive prose as to seemingly make Kid step off of the page and stand for your inspection. So descriptively does Steve show you Kid, that the character becomes viablel, palpable and all-too-hideously realistic. It is as if he actually exists to far more than the mind's eye.
It is an unfortunate fact that some short fiction winds out for the reader a potentially longer, more involved story and then must rush to reel in its various aspects within the confines of things such as space and wordcount. Does Steve's foray into short fiction suffer that fate? Thankfully, it does not. Having written my share of short fiction, I admit to jealousy over how precisely Steve writes this story. He makes the pace and the content march side by side from an opening that hooks the reader to an evolved storyline and then terminating in a timely and thoroughly resolved ending. It is a thing of beauty indeed.
If I had any criticism to offer here, it would be that the piece ends all to soon and leaves the reader wanting more...now! I think this tale would be a far more fitting ensemble piece for a collection of, say, five or more stories of comparable length than as a stand-alone. I can only hope that Steve takes this idea to heart and favors us with more of his masterfully crafted short works...soon.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Sinful Short Fiction: Envy
Jeremiah frowned as Sheriff Bart Carlson strode by. The twin Colt Peacemakers Carlson carried were his source of power. Jeremiah knew he could be every bit as deadly as the sheriff.
Though Carlson lacked deputies, he rejected every overture by Jeremiah. The sheriff made no bones he felt the boy lacked the qualities required of a lawman.
Jeremiah knew the true reason...the old dog feared being shown up by a younger man.
All of that would change today, Jeremiah grinned. He pulled the shotgun from beneath his duster and unloaded into Carlson's broad back. Out with the old...in with the new.
Though Carlson lacked deputies, he rejected every overture by Jeremiah. The sheriff made no bones he felt the boy lacked the qualities required of a lawman.
Jeremiah knew the true reason...the old dog feared being shown up by a younger man.
All of that would change today, Jeremiah grinned. He pulled the shotgun from beneath his duster and unloaded into Carlson's broad back. Out with the old...in with the new.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Sinful Short Fiction: Greed
"What's with you Warren? You already work two extra shifts a week. How greedy can one sumbitch be to want more?!?"
Warren frowned. "There's some things I really want and well...those things cost money is all. Please sir??"
"Fine!", his boss snarled, "But some day you'll learn...money ain't everything!!"
That Friday, Warren left payroll with a fat envelope and grumbles of "Money-grubbin' bastard!" from his boss.
Sister Agnes looked in the envelope and gasped, "No...Warren...it's too much!!"
Warren grinned, "Call me greedy Sister, but I want ALL the kids to get their new shoes at once."
Warren frowned. "There's some things I really want and well...those things cost money is all. Please sir??"
"Fine!", his boss snarled, "But some day you'll learn...money ain't everything!!"
That Friday, Warren left payroll with a fat envelope and grumbles of "Money-grubbin' bastard!" from his boss.
Sister Agnes looked in the envelope and gasped, "No...Warren...it's too much!!"
Warren grinned, "Call me greedy Sister, but I want ALL the kids to get their new shoes at once."
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Sinful Short Fiction: Wrath
Father Quinn hung up the telephone. Peter Malone had passed...the sixth boy taken by drugs this year.
He sought solace in his Bible. His eyes scanned a passage "...with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison..."
After praying, his path seemed so clear. Thirty minutes later he slipped out into the night. Six wine bottles filled with lamp oil rested within a bag.
He lit and threw each bottle, his aim true. Scarce a minute and the drug house was engulfed. Nobody escaped the blaze. Kneeling, the priest whispered, "Bless me Father for I have sinned..."
He sought solace in his Bible. His eyes scanned a passage "...with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison..."
After praying, his path seemed so clear. Thirty minutes later he slipped out into the night. Six wine bottles filled with lamp oil rested within a bag.
He lit and threw each bottle, his aim true. Scarce a minute and the drug house was engulfed. Nobody escaped the blaze. Kneeling, the priest whispered, "Bless me Father for I have sinned..."
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Sinful Short Fiction: Vanity
Shmuel Feldman glanced up as his daughter, Zaida, entered the room.
"Gottenyu Zaida!! What are you dressed for?!?"
A silk blouse accentuated her generous breasts. Her skirt fit like a second skin. Black-stockinged legs met spiked heels.
"Major Stossel is taking me to the theater. I KNOW your objections, Papa, but he has powerful friends who can protect us from what may come."
He frowned. "The vanity Zaida! A woman should not...the vanity! Go whoring with your Nazi protector!! Go!!"
Tears smeared her makeup. " What I do is for love Papa...for love of you.", she whispered. She fled to do what must be done.
"Gottenyu Zaida!! What are you dressed for?!?"
A silk blouse accentuated her generous breasts. Her skirt fit like a second skin. Black-stockinged legs met spiked heels.
"Major Stossel is taking me to the theater. I KNOW your objections, Papa, but he has powerful friends who can protect us from what may come."
He frowned. "The vanity Zaida! A woman should not...the vanity! Go whoring with your Nazi protector!! Go!!"
Tears smeared her makeup. " What I do is for love Papa...for love of you.", she whispered. She fled to do what must be done.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Sinful Short Fiction: Lust
Alastaire Creedy fumed, "After 43 years of instructing you're cashiering me?!?
The Headmaster held resolute. "It's nothing of the sort! The Regents feel it's time for fresh blood."
"Fresh blood?? Carstairs wouldn't know epistemology from mutton stew!!"
"Have some dignity man. The decision has been made. This is merely a courtesy."
Creedy shrieked, "NO!! I NEED those fertile young minds. They require the right hand to mold...to nurture them. They are MINE and I will have what is mine!!!"
The Headmaster sighed...clicked the intercom. "Verna, the constables...NOW!." Poor mad Creedy was led away screaming.
The Headmaster held resolute. "It's nothing of the sort! The Regents feel it's time for fresh blood."
"Fresh blood?? Carstairs wouldn't know epistemology from mutton stew!!"
"Have some dignity man. The decision has been made. This is merely a courtesy."
Creedy shrieked, "NO!! I NEED those fertile young minds. They require the right hand to mold...to nurture them. They are MINE and I will have what is mine!!!"
The Headmaster sighed...clicked the intercom. "Verna, the constables...NOW!." Poor mad Creedy was led away screaming.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Sinful Flash Fiction: Sloth
Colonel Stempfel sighed deeply. Twenty years of dutiful service and how was he rewarded? Not with a posting in Berlin but here processing these...undesirables.
Processing indeed! Entire trainloads of human garbage were "processed" out as oily black smoke daily. Stempfel groaned...2000 to be processed today alone.
His head throbbed from too much wine the night before. Perhaps sleep was in order before today's workload. Not as if THEY were going anywhere, he thought.
He awoke to shouts and American tanks rumbling through the gates. Stempfel yawned hugely and shrugged. No processing to be done today after all.
Processing indeed! Entire trainloads of human garbage were "processed" out as oily black smoke daily. Stempfel groaned...2000 to be processed today alone.
His head throbbed from too much wine the night before. Perhaps sleep was in order before today's workload. Not as if THEY were going anywhere, he thought.
He awoke to shouts and American tanks rumbling through the gates. Stempfel yawned hugely and shrugged. No processing to be done today after all.
Sinful Short Fiction: Gluttony
Mordecai's left eye was swollen shut...a broken tooth throbbed. These Nazi mamzern applied efficiency to all things. He'd undertaken the pain willingly. The kindern wouldn't survive long on thin broth. Others raided the kitchens for food to sustain them. The theft was discovered but not the thieves
The commandant promised punishment for the affront. Mordecai knew his obligation. He was young and strong. He took responsibility and the beating.
Today, medicines were missing from the infirmary. Mordecai stepped forward again.
The commandant chortled, "Liebowitz... again? Truly you MUST be a glutton for punishment. Be assured, we shall feed your hunger."
The commandant promised punishment for the affront. Mordecai knew his obligation. He was young and strong. He took responsibility and the beating.
Today, medicines were missing from the infirmary. Mordecai stepped forward again.
The commandant chortled, "Liebowitz... again? Truly you MUST be a glutton for punishment. Be assured, we shall feed your hunger."
Friday, August 12, 2011
Virtuous Flash Fiction: Kindness
Miranda sat at Kevin's bedside, cradling what remained of his heavily-bandaged left hand.
She was unprepared for just HOW severe his injuries were. His right leg was gone at the hip. His right arm...nearly gone. He had massive head trauma and likely brain damage. The doctors confirmed he was stable and would live.
Miranda frowned. Kevin would be alive but would not LIVE. For an adrenaline junkie like him, no cycling, no football, no snowboarding was not truly living...merely alive. She used the heavy chair to block the door. Kissing him goodbye, she unplugged the machines and cried.
She was unprepared for just HOW severe his injuries were. His right leg was gone at the hip. His right arm...nearly gone. He had massive head trauma and likely brain damage. The doctors confirmed he was stable and would live.
Miranda frowned. Kevin would be alive but would not LIVE. For an adrenaline junkie like him, no cycling, no football, no snowboarding was not truly living...merely alive. She used the heavy chair to block the door. Kissing him goodbye, she unplugged the machines and cried.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Virtuous Flash Fiction: Humility
Mathias peered into the boiling stock pot. He inhaled the thick steam and smiled. With a contented sigh, he reached for the tongs.
Fishing about, he removed the gleaming white skull and placed it on a platter. He appraised it, nodding favorably.
She, it was a female skull, was the ninth and, arguably, finest addition to his collection. As enjoyable as the murders and dismemberings were, his greatest joy lay in admiring his trophies.
Behind him, the TV droned of the discovery of the latest body. Police implored The Butcher to contact them, either for help or to make his demands.
Mathias turned the TV off, frowning. It was a shame. While he dreamed of sharing his wondrous collection with the world, modesty forbade it. Sighing, he returned to contemplating his newest prize.
Fishing about, he removed the gleaming white skull and placed it on a platter. He appraised it, nodding favorably.
She, it was a female skull, was the ninth and, arguably, finest addition to his collection. As enjoyable as the murders and dismemberings were, his greatest joy lay in admiring his trophies.
Behind him, the TV droned of the discovery of the latest body. Police implored The Butcher to contact them, either for help or to make his demands.
Mathias turned the TV off, frowning. It was a shame. While he dreamed of sharing his wondrous collection with the world, modesty forbade it. Sighing, he returned to contemplating his newest prize.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Virtuous Flash Fiction: Patience
Hayes gripped his scoped rifle...watching the gas station below...waiting. Nine hours later, he saw the vehicle arrive. The punk who'd raped his baby girl to death emerged. Lawyers had freed him...it was over. For Hayes it wasn't over...yet. He breathed, exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The round struck...vaporizing the boy's elbow joint.
Hayes smiled, knowing the injury'd take a year or more to heal fully. He would savor the boy's suffering. In a year, he'd stalk the boy down again. An ankle joint next? He had time and the inclination to wait before deciding.
Hayes smiled, knowing the injury'd take a year or more to heal fully. He would savor the boy's suffering. In a year, he'd stalk the boy down again. An ankle joint next? He had time and the inclination to wait before deciding.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Virtuous Flash Fiction: Diligence
Eileen, Sondra and Janna, "The Three Crones", took every opportunity to defame him. They were why Meredith had left him. The spiteful bitches refused to stop meddling.
She'd told him, though she admired his diligence working so much, she needed a man who was around more. He raged that shows, dinners and such weren't free, so he WORKED for HER!! Nevertheless, the next day she was gone.
That night, The Three Crones each met their death at his hands. A short drive across town tomorrow, and Meredith would get HER just desserts. After all, he sneered, he WAS a diligent man.
She'd told him, though she admired his diligence working so much, she needed a man who was around more. He raged that shows, dinners and such weren't free, so he WORKED for HER!! Nevertheless, the next day she was gone.
That night, The Three Crones each met their death at his hands. A short drive across town tomorrow, and Meredith would get HER just desserts. After all, he sneered, he WAS a diligent man.
The Right Word
Shells began falling before dawn...had stopped only an hour before. Katya returned to little more than smoldering rubble. Flame had ravaged all. Father's library now merely ashes. She slumped to the floor sobbing. Her teary eyes focused on Mama's old crystal. The delicate blooms within it were reduced to dry, lifeless husks...as beyond restoration as her keepsakes. She remembered Father's lectures on clarity..."Words have power! Always you must use the right words!!" Katya felt...felt...lugubrious. Yes Papa, THAT is a right word, she smiled. She rose and began sweeping up shards of her life.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Virtuous Flash Fiction: Charity
Charity Larsen listened, confirming her parents slept. Nailing the bedroom door and windows shut had made more noise than she expected. Sloshing kerosene down the hall, the money in her pocket felt heavy...money for the minister who preached the same message every week. Give...Sacrifice...Store up Heavenly treasures. THEY gave and SHE paid the price...no dolls, no pretty dresses for her. That ended tonight. She checked her watch. No time for the minister before catching the bus to freedom. That's okay, she thought, her match falling on the carpet. After all, she grinned, Charity SHOULD begin at home.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Virtuous Flash Fiction: Temperance
Maude stood in the hot night air, listening to the buzzsaw snoring of her husband Howard. He sprawled, asleep in his grubby work clothes, his muddy boots soiling the comforter. Maude despaired of him ever changing. She prayed endlessly to no avail. His salvation seemed possible only one way. Softly she prayed.
Lord accept home thy son Howard to thy bosom. Keep him until all shall be brought forth for Final Judgment. Amen. Maude paused every few words to strike downward with the cast-iron carpet beater. By the end of her prayer, Howard's soul was truly free of alcohol's vile temptation.
Lord accept home thy son Howard to thy bosom. Keep him until all shall be brought forth for Final Judgment. Amen. Maude paused every few words to strike downward with the cast-iron carpet beater. By the end of her prayer, Howard's soul was truly free of alcohol's vile temptation.
A Latinum Library Review: Tales of Frewyn
5 Out of 5 Stars The Lighter Side of Epic Fantasy
When Michelle Franklin asked me if I would like to have an Advance Release Copy of her book Tales of Frewyn to read and review, I accepted eagerly. If you haven't read Michelle's debut novel, The Commander and The Den Asaan Rautu then you really must. She leads you off on a vastly wondrous and magical journey of discovery and delight as you make your first acquaintance with the enigmatic beings known as the Haanta. You will become captivated and crave much more of them. While many of their exploits are in books yet to be released, Tales of Frewyn provides you with your much-needed Haanta fix with both style and flair.
To many authors, epic fantasy is written as an homage to J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert Jordan or any number of other notable writers of classic-styled epic fantasy. Worlds hang in the balance, impossible quests are undertaken and tremendous wars and battles are waged by truly heroic figures. Michelle covers this style masterfully in her first book.
There exists, however, a whole other style of epic fantasy championed by the likes of Piers Anthony and Terry Pratchett. These writers artfully craft their worlds as well and people them with heroes no less awe-inspiriring than their counterparts previously mentioned. What they do differently, is to invest humor, light-hearted frivolity and an air of fun into their novels. With Tales of Frewyn, Michelle bids fair to step out of the shadow of these iconic writers and make her way forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with them.
Tales of Frewyn is a captivating melange of shorter pieces that allow her stalwart hardened characters to be imperfect, flawed...people. The tales address such non-heroic topics as door mats, cheese tasting, playing in the snow and...spiders. These vignettes allow Michelle's readers a unique opportunity to step behind the scenes, so to speak, and see the players from a backstage point of view. I must say that the view is thoroughly enjoyable.
Michelle provides us the familiar characters The Commander and Rautu, while trooping out a wholly new and unexpected group of players. Added to the mix are Rautu's Haanta brethren: Otenohi, Unghaahi and Obanthaa Leraa. While much about them is strange and unknown, since their exploits reside in books not yet seen, enough can be inferred and deduced to make them quickly become key to the Tales' success. The introduction of the elven Kai Linaa, mate of Unghaahi, adds a nice feminine touch to the mix. A generous helping of Frewyns of various classes and a side of pets makes this fantasy banquet completely tasty and infinitely consumable.
Your enjoyment of Tales of Frewyn will be unabated from first tale to last and sadly, all too soon, you will be salivating for more of Michelle's expertly prepared offerings. I have little doubt that future works of hers will be all that we, her loyal readers, could expect and more. For now though, sit back and read again and again these compact, expertly-crafted tales and have a bit of cake. The best may be yet to come in the world of Frewyn/Haanta adventures, but Tales of Frewyn stands ready to make the wait far, far less daunting. Bravo Michelle for a seamless collection of tales well told.
When Michelle Franklin asked me if I would like to have an Advance Release Copy of her book Tales of Frewyn to read and review, I accepted eagerly. If you haven't read Michelle's debut novel, The Commander and The Den Asaan Rautu then you really must. She leads you off on a vastly wondrous and magical journey of discovery and delight as you make your first acquaintance with the enigmatic beings known as the Haanta. You will become captivated and crave much more of them. While many of their exploits are in books yet to be released, Tales of Frewyn provides you with your much-needed Haanta fix with both style and flair.
To many authors, epic fantasy is written as an homage to J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert Jordan or any number of other notable writers of classic-styled epic fantasy. Worlds hang in the balance, impossible quests are undertaken and tremendous wars and battles are waged by truly heroic figures. Michelle covers this style masterfully in her first book.
There exists, however, a whole other style of epic fantasy championed by the likes of Piers Anthony and Terry Pratchett. These writers artfully craft their worlds as well and people them with heroes no less awe-inspiriring than their counterparts previously mentioned. What they do differently, is to invest humor, light-hearted frivolity and an air of fun into their novels. With Tales of Frewyn, Michelle bids fair to step out of the shadow of these iconic writers and make her way forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with them.
Tales of Frewyn is a captivating melange of shorter pieces that allow her stalwart hardened characters to be imperfect, flawed...people. The tales address such non-heroic topics as door mats, cheese tasting, playing in the snow and...spiders. These vignettes allow Michelle's readers a unique opportunity to step behind the scenes, so to speak, and see the players from a backstage point of view. I must say that the view is thoroughly enjoyable.
Michelle provides us the familiar characters The Commander and Rautu, while trooping out a wholly new and unexpected group of players. Added to the mix are Rautu's Haanta brethren: Otenohi, Unghaahi and Obanthaa Leraa. While much about them is strange and unknown, since their exploits reside in books not yet seen, enough can be inferred and deduced to make them quickly become key to the Tales' success. The introduction of the elven Kai Linaa, mate of Unghaahi, adds a nice feminine touch to the mix. A generous helping of Frewyns of various classes and a side of pets makes this fantasy banquet completely tasty and infinitely consumable.
Your enjoyment of Tales of Frewyn will be unabated from first tale to last and sadly, all too soon, you will be salivating for more of Michelle's expertly prepared offerings. I have little doubt that future works of hers will be all that we, her loyal readers, could expect and more. For now though, sit back and read again and again these compact, expertly-crafted tales and have a bit of cake. The best may be yet to come in the world of Frewyn/Haanta adventures, but Tales of Frewyn stands ready to make the wait far, far less daunting. Bravo Michelle for a seamless collection of tales well told.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Virtuous Flash Fiction: Chastity
Carson stood over the bloody body of his daughter Janna. The soiled sheets he found in her hamper nearly told it all. He knew the little tart had been having it on. What he didn't know was the little bastard's name. Janna knew her father demanded chastity and honesty from her. Yet, no matter how hard he beat her, she pleaded innocence. Now she lay dead. His 13-year old, Liza, giggled behind him. "You clueless sod! Those sheets are mine. Been at it with mum's tennis coach for weeks. Janna was the only virgin left in THIS house. Fouled that one up proper, eh??"
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The Death of Magic
David sat at the table staring down into the quickly-cooling bowl of oatmeal that sat before him. Brown sugar and cinnamon flavored, it was normally his favorite breakfast item in all the world. Today, he had no taste for it. The soggy oats were lumpy in some spots, too runny in others and not at all to his liking. Mum made it much better...but she was not here. To hear his father talk, she would not be here...anymore.
"Eat up sport. We're burning daylight here. With things the way they are, I'll be needing you ready earlier so I can get to the office on time. So, hurry on with it."
David spooned at the sodden mass in his bowl dejectedly. He knew, with the wisdom of a 7-year old lad, that things had not been right between his parents for some time. His father started to slip in later and later in the evening from work. His mother seemed always bleary-eyed and distant. Her breath when she kissed him goodbye each morning still carried the telltale sweetness of wine. Then there was the shouting. The accusations and the recrminations flew back and forth so heatedly that, as tightly as he held the pillow to his ears, they still intruded on his sleep.
"But dad...when is mum coming back. When will she..."
"Get it in your head sport!", his father's voice was harsh and strident, "She is gone! Left us in a lurch and gone her own way. That part of our lives is behind us and we need to move along eh??"
The words stung David like a swarm of bees. He dropped his spoon to the bowl with a lound clank.
His father leaned in close and his face softened. He placed his large, warm hand upon David's.
"Here, here, now sport. Chin up. Things are changing for us all and I need you to be my big, strong boy. Can you do that for me lad?"
David could only give the slightest nod as no words seemed to come. His father nodded as well and leaned back to his tea.
"Now don't forget what I told you about your room boy. All that clutter and such needs boxed up the moment we get home tonight. Mrs. Carstairs has graciously agreed to keep us two duffers in a clean, orderly place but she can't be troubled to work around all that rubbish in your room."
David bristled. "But dad! That's NOT rubbish!! Those are my subjects and my kingdom needs me!!"
His father made a dismissive gesture. "What they ARE sport, are dolls and stuffed animals and the kind of frippery no BOY should have about him!! Now go and get your things or we'll both of us be late."
David made his way to his room and entered. He softly closed the door and glanced about. His knights were busy brushing down their horses. The dragon, the manticore and the other monsters cavorted about doing monsterly things. As one, they all stopped and glanced his way.
"And so, your Highness, what news bring you?" It was the tiny voice of Brave Sir Bryan, commander of his castle guard.
David looked over his diminutive subjects and about at the realm he had fashioned of cardboard and paint and tube after tube of glue.
"It's no good men. It's over...done. I have no place for you and it is time I moved on to other things. Or so my old man says."
His assembled group all hung their heads in defeat. The faintest sobs could be heard from some. David snatched up his bag and his blazer and fled the room to the sound of his father imploring him to hurry.
David sat at the table and glanced down into the chipped earthenware bowl. He spooned at the soggy oatmeal within and took a mouthful. Swallowing it down he ran a hand through his thinning hair.
His eyes wandered about his shabby West End loft. They scanned across the lumpy couch, the mismatched items that comprised his home.
"Happy Birthday to me.?"", he muttered glumly.
For today was David's forty first birthday. His mind wandered back in time to a birthday long since passed. He had just turned seven years old and Mum had given him the large stuffed dragon named...called...David sighed, unable to remember what he had named the silly thing.
He reminded himself that only two months after that, the toy was gone and was never to be seen again. That day, David recalled, was when the magic had gone away, and sod all if any of it was liable to ever return. With little enthusiasm and far too much resignation, David pushed the memories down deep inside and finished off his oatmeal.
"Eat up sport. We're burning daylight here. With things the way they are, I'll be needing you ready earlier so I can get to the office on time. So, hurry on with it."
David spooned at the sodden mass in his bowl dejectedly. He knew, with the wisdom of a 7-year old lad, that things had not been right between his parents for some time. His father started to slip in later and later in the evening from work. His mother seemed always bleary-eyed and distant. Her breath when she kissed him goodbye each morning still carried the telltale sweetness of wine. Then there was the shouting. The accusations and the recrminations flew back and forth so heatedly that, as tightly as he held the pillow to his ears, they still intruded on his sleep.
"But dad...when is mum coming back. When will she..."
"Get it in your head sport!", his father's voice was harsh and strident, "She is gone! Left us in a lurch and gone her own way. That part of our lives is behind us and we need to move along eh??"
The words stung David like a swarm of bees. He dropped his spoon to the bowl with a lound clank.
His father leaned in close and his face softened. He placed his large, warm hand upon David's.
"Here, here, now sport. Chin up. Things are changing for us all and I need you to be my big, strong boy. Can you do that for me lad?"
David could only give the slightest nod as no words seemed to come. His father nodded as well and leaned back to his tea.
"Now don't forget what I told you about your room boy. All that clutter and such needs boxed up the moment we get home tonight. Mrs. Carstairs has graciously agreed to keep us two duffers in a clean, orderly place but she can't be troubled to work around all that rubbish in your room."
David bristled. "But dad! That's NOT rubbish!! Those are my subjects and my kingdom needs me!!"
His father made a dismissive gesture. "What they ARE sport, are dolls and stuffed animals and the kind of frippery no BOY should have about him!! Now go and get your things or we'll both of us be late."
David made his way to his room and entered. He softly closed the door and glanced about. His knights were busy brushing down their horses. The dragon, the manticore and the other monsters cavorted about doing monsterly things. As one, they all stopped and glanced his way.
"And so, your Highness, what news bring you?" It was the tiny voice of Brave Sir Bryan, commander of his castle guard.
David looked over his diminutive subjects and about at the realm he had fashioned of cardboard and paint and tube after tube of glue.
"It's no good men. It's over...done. I have no place for you and it is time I moved on to other things. Or so my old man says."
His assembled group all hung their heads in defeat. The faintest sobs could be heard from some. David snatched up his bag and his blazer and fled the room to the sound of his father imploring him to hurry.
David sat at the table and glanced down into the chipped earthenware bowl. He spooned at the soggy oatmeal within and took a mouthful. Swallowing it down he ran a hand through his thinning hair.
His eyes wandered about his shabby West End loft. They scanned across the lumpy couch, the mismatched items that comprised his home.
"Happy Birthday to me.?"", he muttered glumly.
For today was David's forty first birthday. His mind wandered back in time to a birthday long since passed. He had just turned seven years old and Mum had given him the large stuffed dragon named...called...David sighed, unable to remember what he had named the silly thing.
He reminded himself that only two months after that, the toy was gone and was never to be seen again. That day, David recalled, was when the magic had gone away, and sod all if any of it was liable to ever return. With little enthusiasm and far too much resignation, David pushed the memories down deep inside and finished off his oatmeal.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The Process Analyzed
From time to time I write poems poking fun at what I call The Process. It's my attempt to invoke a bit of humor, satire and fun into this nuts-and-bolts experience of writing.
Even before I began my blog I was toying with the idea of self-publishin an e-book of some sort. I don't think I harbored any hopes of becoming rich, famous or even acknowedged. It was really more of a push to be more than I was being and to indulge my often-neglected sense of creativity.
I realize we all write with our own set of goals in mind. To some, their fondest desire is to achieve either monetary or critical acclaim or both. The pursuit of a dream is a good and noble thing in my opinion. That being said, it never hurts to remember that while reaching for that dream, an important aspect is the journey we undertake to get there.
When I ride along somewhere with my wife driving, I invariably notice things that I don't seem to see when I am at the wheel. While I like to think of this as a tribute to staying focused on the road, I can't ignore the truth that I often rush along ignoring the roses along the way. My goal is usually to get somewhere on time, not to enjoy the ride.
I have also come to reside in a virtual world where I am surrounded on all sides by writers who are at a wide gamut of stages on the road to their dreams. Fascinating indeed to see the forest AND the trees.
I have made the acquaintance of a small handful of financially successful full-time writers. I mean those who manage to support themselves entirely from the proceeds of their writing. To be honest, they are not the norm of those I know.
I have come to know a number of authors who have one (or more) books under their belt and who enjoy critical success. While the money DOES come in, it is not anywhere near making their day job a thing of the past. These are the folks who make up most of my writing acquaintances.
I don't doubt that some of them may well win the prize some day and enjoy the fruits of their labors. But for the vast majority of them that will probably NOT happen. It does guarantee them a better quality of wine to drink while they type. It offers them a wider range of vacation options. At the end of the day though, it is the icing but not quite the cake.
The wise ones recognize that this is the niche they may well remain in. Electronic self-publishing of a book has become commonplace enough that virtually anyone with a PC and some rudimentary skills can now be an "author". Traditional publishers are circling their collective wagons and simply not as willing to commit to talent that doesn't promise immediate sustainable profit. It is an uphill battle that is bound to have its share of casualties.
Then there are another contingent of writers I see who dismay me. I don't interact very much with them. They are those writers who have become slaves to The Process. They set themselves Herculean tasks to accomplish daily. Their schedule revolves around editing, revising, reworking and endless laboring over their writing. They finish every day exhausted and drained mentally, physically and creatively. They push themselves to the point of emotional and even physical pain perfecting their work. They shackle themselves with leaden chains made up of The Process...the mechanics...the regimen of creation.
They remind me of nothing so much as those Sunday night Lifetime movies that tell the heart-wrenching saga of an aspiring ____ (fill the blank with singer, gymnast, dancer, etc) who drives thesmselves so relentlessly that they cease to find any enjoyment or happiness in what was once something they loved.
It is for those writers that I write my less-than-serious verses about The Process. I think it is therapeutic and needful to make time every day to laugh just a little at yourself. It is healthy and necessary to stop and mock yourself from time to time. I like to think I provide some fodder for that.
I plead with all of my fellow writers at all levels of success or setback to remember something FAR more important than you may make the time to realize now. We are the poets and dreamers of dreams!! We are blessed with the imaginanation, the skills and the opportunity to bring words to life! We have the distinction of creating wondrous, whimsical and poignant gems of immeasurable beauty. So I close today with the fervent hope that as you all dream and stretch and reach out for that shiny brass ring that you never EVER forget to enjoy the simple pleasure of riding along on the carousel.
Even before I began my blog I was toying with the idea of self-publishin an e-book of some sort. I don't think I harbored any hopes of becoming rich, famous or even acknowedged. It was really more of a push to be more than I was being and to indulge my often-neglected sense of creativity.
I realize we all write with our own set of goals in mind. To some, their fondest desire is to achieve either monetary or critical acclaim or both. The pursuit of a dream is a good and noble thing in my opinion. That being said, it never hurts to remember that while reaching for that dream, an important aspect is the journey we undertake to get there.
When I ride along somewhere with my wife driving, I invariably notice things that I don't seem to see when I am at the wheel. While I like to think of this as a tribute to staying focused on the road, I can't ignore the truth that I often rush along ignoring the roses along the way. My goal is usually to get somewhere on time, not to enjoy the ride.
I have also come to reside in a virtual world where I am surrounded on all sides by writers who are at a wide gamut of stages on the road to their dreams. Fascinating indeed to see the forest AND the trees.
I have made the acquaintance of a small handful of financially successful full-time writers. I mean those who manage to support themselves entirely from the proceeds of their writing. To be honest, they are not the norm of those I know.
I have come to know a number of authors who have one (or more) books under their belt and who enjoy critical success. While the money DOES come in, it is not anywhere near making their day job a thing of the past. These are the folks who make up most of my writing acquaintances.
I don't doubt that some of them may well win the prize some day and enjoy the fruits of their labors. But for the vast majority of them that will probably NOT happen. It does guarantee them a better quality of wine to drink while they type. It offers them a wider range of vacation options. At the end of the day though, it is the icing but not quite the cake.
The wise ones recognize that this is the niche they may well remain in. Electronic self-publishing of a book has become commonplace enough that virtually anyone with a PC and some rudimentary skills can now be an "author". Traditional publishers are circling their collective wagons and simply not as willing to commit to talent that doesn't promise immediate sustainable profit. It is an uphill battle that is bound to have its share of casualties.
Then there are another contingent of writers I see who dismay me. I don't interact very much with them. They are those writers who have become slaves to The Process. They set themselves Herculean tasks to accomplish daily. Their schedule revolves around editing, revising, reworking and endless laboring over their writing. They finish every day exhausted and drained mentally, physically and creatively. They push themselves to the point of emotional and even physical pain perfecting their work. They shackle themselves with leaden chains made up of The Process...the mechanics...the regimen of creation.
They remind me of nothing so much as those Sunday night Lifetime movies that tell the heart-wrenching saga of an aspiring ____ (fill the blank with singer, gymnast, dancer, etc) who drives thesmselves so relentlessly that they cease to find any enjoyment or happiness in what was once something they loved.
It is for those writers that I write my less-than-serious verses about The Process. I think it is therapeutic and needful to make time every day to laugh just a little at yourself. It is healthy and necessary to stop and mock yourself from time to time. I like to think I provide some fodder for that.
I plead with all of my fellow writers at all levels of success or setback to remember something FAR more important than you may make the time to realize now. We are the poets and dreamers of dreams!! We are blessed with the imaginanation, the skills and the opportunity to bring words to life! We have the distinction of creating wondrous, whimsical and poignant gems of immeasurable beauty. So I close today with the fervent hope that as you all dream and stretch and reach out for that shiny brass ring that you never EVER forget to enjoy the simple pleasure of riding along on the carousel.
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Process Stalled
My poetic offering today is dedicated to a very special writer friend of mine. She is, at present, a full-time writer and one of the UK's greatest natural resources. Sadly, she knows all too well how matters mundane can push matters literary off to the side. I am quite certain that she knows how easily a productive train of thought can be derailed.
I need to edit chapter six or is it chapter eight?
I shouldn't start so early since my brain won't concentrate.
My characters are nagging they don't like how they've been wrote.
I think most times they do it just to try and get my goat.
A plot hole big as Texas has just sprung up in my path.
I've half a mind to chuck it all and take a bubble bath.
It's not as if my progress since I sat down at this screen
Will suffer if I take an hour and soak my body clean.
I fear too much of chapter five was wrote in passive voice.
I'm sure I had a reason for this non-productive choice.
I still prefer to tell a tale much more than I do show.
I'm not sure if I'll change it or relent and let it go.
I pause and try to stifle back a monumental yawn.
I can't remember if I put the blasted kettle on.
I pad out to the kitchen, thoughts awhirling in my head.
I truly need a cuppa and some buttered jelly bread.
I've fortified my body with three cups of scalding tea.
Perhaps my work in progress will cooperate with me.
I've schedules I must keep if I'm to meet my daily goal.
But first another cup or two and half a jelly roll.
Good grief it's nearly noon with not a bit of writing done!
And damn, the bus to town is due to leave just after one.
A writer's life's not leisure or an endless bunch of thrills.
I still have food to buy and pay a mighty stack of bills.
I'm home at last from shopping and the time's now half past three.
I've got a nasty headache and a nap's the thing for me.
I'll only rest an hour and then resume my writing task.
I don't believe a bit of sleep is all that much to ask.
Gadzooks it's half past nine...I didn't set my cursed alarm.
My mouth tastes like a litter box and I can't feel one arm.
A new bed's going on my list of thing I need to get.
Except, unless I sell some books, I can't afford that yet.
By ten I'm up and on my feet to get myself a bite.
My nap's insured that now I'll have to work straight through the night.
Or better yet, a proper meal instead of some quick snack
Is just the thing I need to get my motivation back.
My meal consumed I note the time's eleven forty five.
That heavy feed has sapped away my little bit of drive.
I think I'll hit the couch instead and watch a DVD.
Tomorrow is another day...the work will wait on me.
I need to edit chapter six or is it chapter eight?
I shouldn't start so early since my brain won't concentrate.
My characters are nagging they don't like how they've been wrote.
I think most times they do it just to try and get my goat.
A plot hole big as Texas has just sprung up in my path.
I've half a mind to chuck it all and take a bubble bath.
It's not as if my progress since I sat down at this screen
Will suffer if I take an hour and soak my body clean.
I fear too much of chapter five was wrote in passive voice.
I'm sure I had a reason for this non-productive choice.
I still prefer to tell a tale much more than I do show.
I'm not sure if I'll change it or relent and let it go.
I pause and try to stifle back a monumental yawn.
I can't remember if I put the blasted kettle on.
I pad out to the kitchen, thoughts awhirling in my head.
I truly need a cuppa and some buttered jelly bread.
I've fortified my body with three cups of scalding tea.
Perhaps my work in progress will cooperate with me.
I've schedules I must keep if I'm to meet my daily goal.
But first another cup or two and half a jelly roll.
Good grief it's nearly noon with not a bit of writing done!
And damn, the bus to town is due to leave just after one.
A writer's life's not leisure or an endless bunch of thrills.
I still have food to buy and pay a mighty stack of bills.
I'm home at last from shopping and the time's now half past three.
I've got a nasty headache and a nap's the thing for me.
I'll only rest an hour and then resume my writing task.
I don't believe a bit of sleep is all that much to ask.
Gadzooks it's half past nine...I didn't set my cursed alarm.
My mouth tastes like a litter box and I can't feel one arm.
A new bed's going on my list of thing I need to get.
Except, unless I sell some books, I can't afford that yet.
By ten I'm up and on my feet to get myself a bite.
My nap's insured that now I'll have to work straight through the night.
Or better yet, a proper meal instead of some quick snack
Is just the thing I need to get my motivation back.
My meal consumed I note the time's eleven forty five.
That heavy feed has sapped away my little bit of drive.
I think I'll hit the couch instead and watch a DVD.
Tomorrow is another day...the work will wait on me.
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