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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1554 February 16, 2017 Let's turn on those creative juices and create something with these words: gray, smart, thaw, bow, jelly, window The world outside the kitchen window was a stark gray landscape of two week old snow that refused to thaw. Theresa felt the familiar tug of another budding depression in her bones. She was not a winter person. Unlike her daughter, she did not rise with childish excitement to watch a new snowfall coat the world. She did not bound eagerly into the drifts or throw herself back first into the soft drifts to make snow angels with pumping arms. Snow made her feel oppressed, especially when it lingered and turned slowly dirty and black with the prolonged exposure to the urban grind. Nattie was suddenly at her elbow. "Mom, are you making my lunch?" she asked, dragging a toy brush through her messy blonde curls. "That's not your brush Natalie Jean and what are you wearing?" Her five year old daughter took at step back and twirled proudly showing off her latest ensemble. This morning her daughter had paired leopard print leggings with a zebra pink top and purple rubber crocs. It should have made Theresa giggle, but she was just so tired. Theresa pointed to the winter boots by the front door and said, with as much authority as she could muster, "no crocs Nattie, it's winter." Her daughter pulled a face and dramatically flipped the crocs off her feet, barely missing the dog's water bowl with one. "Fine, then...better not give me peanut butter and jelly!" Theresa looked down at the blob of jelly on the end of her knife. She felt the depression settle deeper in her joints. The alarm on her phone suddenly chimed, a ten minute warning for them both that the bus would be there soon. Theresa fetched a real hairbrush and dragged it through her daughter's hair, doing her best to power through despite Natalie's diva-worthy screeching. In the end, she gave up. She pulled the unruly tangles into a ponytail and plopped on a pink bow to match the zebra top. She stepped back and looked at her pouting daughter, trying to gauge how much of a hot mess she actually was. Theresa decided Natalie's ensemble was passable for a spirited kindergartner. Theresa helped Natalie into her winter coat and hat. She bent and brushed her face free of pop tart crumbs before planting a kiss on her pursed little lips and herding her out the door. Half way down the driveway, Natalie relented and slipped her gloved hand into Theresa's. They walked past the graying mounds of ice and snow. Theresa tried hard not to focus on the decaying snowman stripped and battered by the elements. As the school bus rounded the corner and bore down on them, Natalie quipped, "Mommy I hope it snows again tomorrow!" Theresa bit back her knee jerk response, which would have been colorful and inappropriate at best. She waved to her daughter as the bus drove off. Alone now with herself, Theresa welcomed the wave of melancholy that broke over her like a tide. She slowly walked back to the house, momentarily indulging in a fantasy where she would hibernate until late Spring. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1073 February 16, 2017 Prompt: "It's important that my products are beautiful but it matters that they are functional." How do you feel about this? I was raised by a woman who was practical to a fault. My mother had that dark beauty to wear anything well and the opportunity to afford a full and generous closet. She was the young wife of a successful entrepreneur, in many ways, the quintessential corporate wife. She was beautiful, with her slender build, dark hair and blue eyes and she dutifully attended all the company functions on my father's arm. She cut a lovely figure in any room and her outfits were always eye-catching. I remember shopping with her at a local place called the Tiage. She bought a lot of her party clothes there. They specialized in those one of a kind dresses that were elaborate, embellished with rich colors and layers of embroidered lace. These were all dresses and pantsuits cut to flatter and it seemed to me, every one she tried on was perfect for her. She would try on a lot but very often, almost always in fact, she would leave with just one. My mother could have afforded ten of those dresses but she didn't think they were practical. Instead, she would buy one and then wear it different ways, dressed down with a blazer or worn with heavier jewelry for a night out. She shopped for the occasion or event, preferring to buy something she could disguise and re-wear to multiple functions. I remember watching her struggle to choose between two or three designs and I began echoing my grandmother's insistence that she just, "get them all!". If my mother could not assign a practical, specific use to a dress or an outfit, back into the rack it went no matter how flawless she had looked in it. I simultaneously envied her ability to wear those dressed and was frustrated by her frugal refusal to purchase them. My mother had a one teal dress, short sleeved and silky. It had elaborate detailed cut-outs across the helm and at the base of the sleeves. The color and cut were absolutely perfect for her. She wore that a lot. She bought the same dress in a pale pink. There was another outfit, a cream colored pantsuit that could have been designed with her exact coloring and curvature in mind. She made so few extravagant purchases for herself that I can still recall the exceptionally beautiful ones with such clarity. The quote today reminded me so much of my mother...of that part of her that was both appreciative of beautiful things but also always governed by practicality. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1030 January 4, 2017 Prompt: Dreams have no expiration date. Do you agree with this statement? Dreams have no expiration date, except of course that dream I once had of becoming a sexy, rockbilly roller derby star...that dream has died a slow death with the unforgiving mid-40's birthdays and sometimes self-dislocating knee joint. Clearly that heady vision of greatness has been moved to the expired column. Everything else...I might still have a shot at! "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1511: January 4, 2017 Prompt: Write about moving home. It seems that the majority of my life has been about moving out and moving on rather than moving home. My parents went through a painful divorce, the worst of it while I was away at school. Moving home, even on the weekends and breaks, often meant coming home to one tension-steeped household or the other. It was a wholly unappealing prospect. I managed to eek out alternative living arrangements, staying with friends in the summers between semesters and finally getting a place off-campus with a boyfriend. In a sense, I feel as if I never really went home again after I started college, not in any real sense. Part of it was, I liked being on my own but mostly I enjoyed distancing myself from the photo-finish family that was imploding and deconstructing before my eyes. I welcome the opportunities to go abroad and stay at school and work through most weekends. As a result of my intentional absence, my little sister bore the brunt of my mother's grief - something I still harbor a fair amount of guilt over. I motored past all the dynamic changes in my family life and just kept moving...moving up and moving on..just never moving back. |
| In the hustle and bustle of a typical December, I have found exactly no time to write. I have watched a distressing amount of prompts pass me by as I struggle to keep my head above the volume of work on my desk. I almost welcome the lull that mid January will bring me as a true New England winter settles in. I tell myself I will get back to my submissions and deadlines then. We will see what the new year delivers...for now, I'm happy to find a little pocket of quiet before the onslaught starts today to get one or two entries out. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1496 December 20, 2016 What's your favorite Christmas, Hannukah or Winter recipe? Does your family have a traditional recipe that is served whenever they get together? To be honest, I'm not fully aware of how the dates came to grace our holiday table. It seems that they were always there, making their humble appearance between the rolls and cranberry sauce. It was my grandfather's thing, those stuffed dates. I remember watching him make them. I remember having him teach me to stuff them with just the right amount of peanut butter so that when you rolled them, they would get coated with just the right amount of sugar. When I was a child, I never ate them. The shriveled fruit held no appeal, not even covered in a healthy dose of sugar. He loved them though, and would pop them into his mouth, ever third or fourth one made. Then he'd place them, in a little glass dish, in the center of the table where they would stay untouched for most of the night. I never saw anyone but my grandfather eat them other than my grandmother, who would eat one or two mostly out of obligation I believed. For me, it was always the creation of the treat that I grew to enjoy, that connection to something that was just simply always done out of tradition. After my grandfather passed on and my parents divorced, the holidays were very different for a long time. Then, my Uncle brought Christmas Eve back to my grandparent's house and those stuffed dates reappeared again on the Christmas table. I think it was a collaborate effort between my Uncle and I, a shared memory that connected us to man who was a complicated but central figure in both our lives. Making those dates feels like a way of honoring the father and grandfather that we both believe he wanted to be, even if he failed at times. As I watch my daughter making the dates now with her cousin, I am taken back to the days of my childhood when it was me that dutifully took the sliced dates from my grandfather to stuff with peanut butter. I watch Jaden take them now and delicately roll them in the plate of granulated sugar and proudly line them up in the glass dish. I started eating the dates at some point after my grandfather was gone. Over the years I've grown to like them. We don't make a lot, there are still only a handful of us that will eat them, but they get made without fail each year all the same. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1015 December 20, 2016 Prompt: How would you like to ride in a “one-horse open sleigh” on snow and ice with the cold Siberian wind blowing at your face? Can you come up with a story, a poem, or an essay about it? The frigid wind penetrated my fur coat like icy talons. I hunkered lower in the sleigh, drawing my heavy hood closed, restricting my vision but protecting more of my exposed face. There wasn't much to see anyway but a wide expanse of a frozen wasteland, stretching as far as the eyes could see. The Snow Queen's domain was devoid of color and definition, with the barren white ground meeting the ice blue shy, the horizon barely distinguishable. I closed my eyes briefly over my burning irises, felt a solitary tear slip free and slide down my cheek, freezing before it passed the tip of my reddened nose. I flicked in away with my gloved hand and cautioned a look at her, worried that she might have seen. My Queen was a blindingly beautiful vision. She rode with her back rigid, her gray eyes intent on the path forged by the racing sled. Her long white hair whipped out behind her just as that of the albino stallion that dragged our sleigh in its powerful wake. Her skin was so pale, it was nearly translucent and the delicate veins in her hands looked like think lavender ribbons traveling beneath the flesh. She wore no fur over her dress, the gauzy lace hugged her curves and looked like it had materialized from the falling snow itself. The hands that gripped the reins were bare with the exception of a silver ring with a single, large sapphire stone. The jewel blazed and flashed each time she flicked the reins and called to the horse to hurry. Her lovely face betrayed no hint of urgency much as her startling beauty hid the great well of cruelty inside her. The sleigh raced forward across the Siberian plains and the end of the world never seemed so far. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1476: November 30, 2016 Prompt: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. What do you think about this old saying? Do you find something beautiful that other people don't think is beautiful? Beauty can be universal as often as it can be relative to the beholder. I have often found beauty in things that might be less appealing to others. Driving through the Mexican desert, I found a stoic beauty in the tall cacti dotting the bleak landscape and covering the base of the brown mountains. There was a loveliness to the wide, open expanse of rugged territory outside the window. I found myself getting lost in the miles of tumbleweeds and raw, rocky earth. There was this sense that this was a primitive place, untouched and pristine in its perfect balance. I felt dwarfed by it, in awe of its stunning panorama. That place moved me in ways I still find difficult to express all these years later. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 995 November 30, 2016 Prompt: "Be courageous and try to write in a way that scares you a little." Haley Gerth Do you agree? Should we be daring? I believe if I'm being the most honest in my craft than I am always writing in a way that scares me because it is authentic. If you write what is true to you regardless of what that means to others, regardless of the consequences, than you are truly a writer in its purest form. If you self-censor or write with a fear of the effect your words might have, then you are holding back, then you are limiting yourself. I have written things from my heart that resulted in a lot of turmoil, that affected others adversely. I have done so knowing that it was an unfortunate side effect of being truthful to myself and I had no choice but to take responsibility for it. I take responsibility yes, but I do not apologize. Never apologize for something true, for revealing your truth. If it comes down to a choice to write or not, then for me it becomes not a choice but a necessity. As far as fiction goes, why not be daring? Fiction gives us the freedom to forge a near boundless story and we should only be limited by our own creativity. I have written a fair amount of erotica, a daring genre in itself. I am very careful to rate my pieces adequately and advise new readers of the content so they can make an educated choice to read or not. As much as I have the freedom to express myself, each individual has the freedom to read or say, "no thanks, that's not my cup of tea." So, in my opinion, be bold, be daring, use colorful and dangerous words and just write! |
| Even before I see that coy reminder about my blog in my inbox, I feel the restlessness that always accompanies too many consecutive days of non-writing. I feel that telltale tension in my chest and gut that signals to those creative pockets of my brain. I feel the stagnancy in every pore and it drives an almost biological need to write something, anything. In these recent weeks of so much unrest and worry, I have avoided the only thing that really keeps me centered. As a result, I find myself internalizing things or spouting off over dinner to family members who would honestly, really rather "read" how I feel than listen to my disjointed ravings. I tell myself, in the very least, at least I try to blog...even if I can't make a daily commitment, its good to have a place to go to prompts that challenge me and provide me some mental exercise. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 987 November 22, 2016 Prompt: Can you find a positive meaning in a negative situation or even in a word, such as revenge, mayhem, pain, etc.? Come up with your own examples, if you wish. In these last few weeks it seems the world is mired in negative situations. I spent a great deal of time trying to find the positive meanings in things it seems, to no real avail. I have to resist the urge to disconnect from the news. It is hard not to get swept up in the mayhem in the wake of Trump's victory. It is hard to reconcile the division in this country, in my community, even in my own family. I try to take comfort in the fact that change can be positive, even as I wonder about half the country being marginalized. I try to find the faith in our new President-elect even as he and his surrogates speak of policies that I find abhorrent. I find I am failing quite often these days. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1468 November 22, 2016 Do your storytelling instincts take you to environmental activism, a futuristic sci-fi universe, or an adventure in the wilderness? Or perhaps, to an apartment scene in which this news seems, for the time being, to have no bearing on the characters? My storytelling instincts usually begin with a character or a feeling rather than any specific setting unless I'm writing for a prompt that calls for one. I do enjoy setting the scene in my fictional pieces, I think that's important to try to immerse your readers in the environment. I tend to be detailed in that manner particularly when the setting is unfamiliar. For example, I wrote a story about my experiences working behind the scenes at the local aquarium. I used sounds and smells as well as visual descriptions to provide the reader with as much of a vision of the setting as possible. I enjoy reading stories where I am transported to a place. James Lee Burke is one writer who I feel does this extremely well. Take this excerpt for example from his novel, Jesus Out to Sea: “Then the sun broke above the crest of the hills and the entire countryside looked soaked in blood, the arroyos deep in shadow, the cones of dead volcanoes stark and biscuit-colored against the sky. I could smell pinion trees, wet sage, woodsmoke, cattle in the pastures, and creek water that had melted from snow. I could smell the way the country probably was when it was only a dream in the mind of God.” ― James Lee Burke, That is pretty amazing-sauce if you ask me...love the way his words let me "see" the place, experiencing it across multiple senses at the same time. His stories are very character driven but his descriptive powers in setting the scene, place and tone of the his novels are simply unrivaled. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1460: November 14, 2016 Prompt: Use the following words to create a story or poem. Words: dance, castle, onion, grinder, screamer, glamor, cougar, reckless, zebra There is a famous poem that tells us to "dance like no one is watching". This is reasonable advice except those of us working moms who live a carefully regimented life that leaves precious little time to use the bathroom interrupted, let alone dance. For us, our home is our castle where we lord over as many details of our family's routine as is humanely possible. We have to be authoritative and diligent because we have two full time, ultra demanding jobs which can be notoriously thankless at times. My husband accuses me of being bossy and a screamer on a regular basis. He is right on both counts. Some days this double life can put you through the grinder. I live a life that is full of purpose and reward but entirely devoid of glitz and glamor most days. I think I make careful, conservative decisions all the time and my fantasies involve me living out days when I behave unreasonably or act reckless. Sometimes, I sleep through the second and third alarms or spend my lunch getting a secret pedicure. Some days I wear sexy zebra leggings and a push up bra and tell myself I could still be considered a cougar in certain circles and with enough wine. Sometimes I tell myself I'm still a mystery for my husband, like an onion with multi-layered surprises waiting to be unraveled. Some days I even dance....I just do it before everyone else wakes up! "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 980-- November 14th, 2016 Prompt: What fears have actually come true in your life or, if you’d rather, a friend or a family member’s life? Fear has always been a big motivator for me...fear of failure, fear of loss, fear of illness, fear of being an underachiever, fear of not being successful. I think at certain times in my life, I've realized that while at least of few of those fears have come true, they really haven't been as substantial as I once thought. In many cases, the bad things that have come true have given me the opportunity to change my course, change my life in ways that have brought me into something positive. I think you could life your life in fear and miss living some essential parts of it. Facing our fears is part of living, of growing into something more for ourselves. |
| My daughter is excited about this election. She is six and the possibility for her to see the first female become President is of monumental importance to her. I wish her enthusiasm was contagious. I wish I could look at this election with all the naivete and promise that she can. Instead, I am dreading my own trip to the polls where the responsibility forces me to choose between two people who, in my opinion, have no business being on the ballot. She is looking forward to accompanying me to the polling location on Tuesday, an event that to her seems shrouded in epic adult importance. She proudly tells me she is casting her vote in her classroom election for Hillary Clinton and unabashedly explains her decision is because "Hillary would be the first girl president" and Trump is a "big bully". I resist the urge to tell her than indeed both of the candidates have done their fair share of bullying and that voting for Hillary just because she's a woman isn't the best reason. I resist the urge to expand on Trump's temperament, on how he is so much more than a mere bully and the danger he could pose to our already severely divided nation. I resist the urge to talk about the fear I feel in the wake of a tumultuous election and my reservations that either one of these people could unite and heal us. After all, my daughter is only six and her academic coverage of American politics does not dwell on the realities of corruption, greed, back door dealings, sexism, racism and scandals. For now, the process of selecting our next president has captivated her interest and it is my responsibility to teach her the importance of being a good citizen - even if I am a most discouraged and disgusted one. I find it easiest to talk to her in general terms about the voting process, about our hard earned right to vote and why it so very important to have our voices heard. Instead of discussing these candidates, we talk about civic duty and patriotism. We talk about who suffragettes were and how they made it possible for someone like Hillary to run today. Instead of party affiliations, we talk about the mechanics of voting and the importance of making a personal, informed choice. What else I can do as a parent in these times? Thankfully she is only six and her questions are much easier than they could be, her interests much easier to deflect. The truth is I want her to be invested in her country. I want her to be proudly American but also see the importance of growing into a compassionate global citizen, regardless of who acts as our Commander in Chief. And now, because I need my own deflection, the prompts... "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1450 November 4, 2016 " What happened all those years ago? I remember standing on the bridge of all things and in my hands the salvation of the universe. Just as I attempted to save us I heard a ------ It's your blog, tell us what happens next. The room had gone still and strangely silent. It was odd, it was as if the sudden absence of all sound had created a fragile seal around us. We held our breathe, fearing it seemed, the slightest disruption would shatter everything. I remember standing on the bridge of all things and in my hands the salvation of the universe. Just as I attempted to save us I heard a sharp intake of breath and a soft, insistent "this can not be." I turned toward her now, my brilliant colleague. I saw that her eyes trembled with a primitive fear so great I could feel it take in root in every cell of my being. I knew our discovery threatened everything, nothing more so then that tenuous thread that connected our very existence to the universe itself. We had searched for this, this so-called "god particle", for most of our adult lives. We had become so immersed in the challenge, in the pursuit that neither one of us had ever once considered that it would mean if we actually discovered its existence. Now, confronted with that very truth, we were both consumed by the weight of where our science had lead us. I watched her, slip slowly to the ground, one hand slipping beneath her collar. Her hand surfaced, clutching the tiny gold crucifix, a talisman I always thought was more sentimental for her than symbolic. Now, watching her shatter, I realized how delicately her faith had existed alongside her scientific reasoning. There had been a place inside her that had allowed for the science and belief to coincide, a place that had remained safely shrouded in mystery. Now that place had been exposed in one defining moment, in our cold and sterile lab. She had been at all times both the scientist and the believer and now would cease to be one or the other. Her eyes were on mine, a wordless question rising tragically in them, "what do I do now?" "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 970 November 4, 2016 What have human beings become? Did war make us evil or did it just activate an evil lurking inside us? Are we guilty of making permanent decisions based on temporary feelings? I believe in all mankind there is war. It is built into the network of human DNA. I do not believe it make us evil, more that it is a by-product of our biological drive to survive. War does however provide the excuse some evil men need to give license to the darkness embedded in their souls. The opportunity to wage war allows them to paint the world with chaos and pain. It is hard not to think about Syria and how Bashar Hafez al-Assad has made that country a personal canvas for his masterpiece of destruction. It isn't hard to see how war can awaken and give life to a resident evil or how temporary feelings can permanently wound country, a people.   |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 968 November 2, 2016 Prompt: Make a list of 10 things that make you smile. There is a lot in this life I have been blessed with. It isn't hard to come up with a list of ten things that make me smile but they do seem divided into two categories...which are the big and the broad ones and those that are much more simple in nature. There are the big things... 1. My daughter, from the moment of her birth and every day since then. 2. Watching my husband's transformation from a good man to an amazing, loving father. 3. Times together as an extended family when we are laughing together, exchanging stories and telling tales. 4. Writing, about anything, just being able to connect with my creative center. 5. Having those good, career days, when I get recognized for my contributions and input. Then there are a whole host of simple pleasures that bring me joy... 6. A roaring fire and a glass of wine 7. A favorite tune coming on in the car or in the office at just the right time. 8. A long conversation over a tapas meal with my college roommate. 9. Making a big Sunday morning breakfast while listening to NPR. 10. The morning after a heavy snow, when the world is quiet and brand new just for a moment. "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1448: November 2, 2016 Prompt: You know what music is? God’s little reminder that there’s something else besides us in this universe; harmonic connection between all living beings, everywhere, even the stars.– Robin Williams. Does music inspire you? Does music cause a connection between living beings? Music is one of my great loves in this life. My tastes are very diverse with my musical library crossing genres and traveling across decades. It is not uncommon find a little bit of everything in my playlists, from Tchaikovsky the Rolling Stones, Creedance to Pink, Ed Sheeren to Eva Cassidy. I collect tunes that affect me in a multitude of ways. I use those tunes to rage or to heal, to motivate or to grieve. A stressful day at work will certainly send me toward the likes of Jack White for fortitude or to Walk off the Earth to keep me in balance. A long car ride will have me marking the miles with some vintage classic rock delivered by Janis, Santana or and Queen, gritty jams by Elle King, a little bounce with Trombone Shorty or Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds. My daughter is regularly exposed to such variety every morning on our drive to school. She can readily identify and appreciates most of my extensive music catalog from Allen Stone to ZZ Ward and everyone in between. I hope I am giving her a foundation in love for all types of music and that she finds as much joy in it as I do. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 967 November 1, 2016. Prompt: What elements can a writer use to make his work in the horror genre scary? Over the past year I have found a new fascination with the horror genre after some of my work was selected for publication in the Once Upon a Scream anthology. I found the experience of writing horror very liberating in a way I hadn't anticipated. I've always been a reader of the genre and a fan of King, Straub and Koontz. The experience with this anthology exposed me to reading more diverse selections, cross-genre delights that inspired me to consider writing more myself. The greatest appeal for me about writing horror is the freedom of it, the limitless potential of fear. The fact that from phobias to the paranormal, the field of what scares us is wide open and highly relative. Let's face it, there is so much that scares us, fragile, impressionable bags of flesh that we are. The writers I feel master this genre the best are always the ones to take the most liberties with fear. They can take something innocuous and make it terrifying by applying just the right angle. Great horror writers can leave us with pulsing hearts and racing adrenaline long after we close their books. That's impressive. Who hasn't read Stephen King's "It" and not been forever uneasy with clowns ever since confronting Pennywise among those pages? Stoker's Dracula is as an indelible character in literature as there has ever been. Bentley's "Jaws", had us all thinking twice before "going back in the water" didn't it? What was it that these writers used to scare us so effectively? They exploited the primal fears embedded in our DNA. They mutated the mundane into something that could not be easily contained, controlled or defeated. They made us feel unsafe. For me, the biggest scares always come as a surprise, after we've told myself the worst is over, then we find out Hell has another floor... I don't know how effective I am as a horror writer but I enjoy making the attempt. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1447 November 1, 2016 Use these random words to discuss something on your mind: drip, clinical, regret, contemporary, greed, power, and balloons. It's your blog, make it a rant, a poem, or a story. Have fun. Jackie's heels made hollow click-clacks on the linoleum as she walked down the urine-colored hospital hallway. The flowers sagged in her arms, now heavy and smelling sickly sweet from the extra hours in her warm car. She should have tossed them but hadn't wanted to come empty handed. Truthfully, she hadn't wanted to be seen coming empty handed, the man at the end of the hall couldn't have cared less what she brought. She stopped at the nurses desk, and stood there watching the clinical hustle and bustle and waiting for someone to address her. A hefty nurse with too pink lipstick finally turned and asked if she needed anything. Jackie told her who she was there to visit. The nurse pointed a thick finger at the big dry erase board on the far wall and said, "Room 151, but he's not back yet. You can wait for him in his room." Jackie nodded and made her way to her uncle's vacant room. There was precious little in the small contemporary space aside from a weak, partially deflated bouquet of balloons clinging to the far corner and a dried out violet in a blue clay pot. Jackie added her own flowers to the sad tableau and took at seat across from the foot of the bed. The sheets were tossled and the saline drip bag hung emaciated from its stand, its hose snaking over the mess of sheets like a marauding serpent. She felt herself shudder. This was the hospital room of a tyrant, a man who had lived a life consumed by greed and power and was now facing death alone because of it. It made her sad. It made her also feel vindicated somehow. Hadn't she warned him about this? Hadn't she hurled the prediction over her shoulder at his scowling face as she had felt his home? Jackie heard the thumping gurney wheels approaching and she instinctively stood, drawing her arms up around her. Her eyes on the door, she forced herself to breath as she prepared to face a man she hadn't seen in over fifteen years. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1425 October 28, 2016 When everyone turns 25 years old they are assigned either a Demon or an Angel based on karma, however ,you are assigned a Valkyrie? What happened, how did you luck out or not? Distant bells brought Nora back from a sleep so dream-filled she felt exhausted despite her more than twelve hours of slumber. She dragged herself up, shaking her head to rid it of the remnants of last night's mind magic. She hated the nights of dreams, the vivid parade of images and mishmash of hyphenated story lines that always left her strangely restless and discontent the whole day. Nora hated that she always felt obligated to sort through her brain's deluge, looking for hidden messages and directives, unable to ever qualify the dreams as simply a brain dump. She padded into the small kitchen only to find the coffee maker had failed to follow its program and the pot sat empty, taunting her with the lack of hot java. Nora groaned dramatically and flipped the switch. "Brew bitch!" she commanded, just as her phone began to vibrate with an incoming call. Nora looked at the clock, barely 6am...right on time.... Her sister Gretchen had started singing before she even got the phone up to her ear. Her younger sister belted through her own uninhibited version of "Happy, Happy Birthday" as she had done every year since Nora had moved away from home. Gretchen finished on a high note that sent her roommates into a chorus of howls and barks. Gretchen lived with a small menagerie of creatures that included three huskies and a old basset hound. Nora waited while her sister quieted the dogs. "So, big sis is 25 today - how's it feel? Any big plans?" Gretchen asked. "Same and yesterday and no, nothing planned outside of Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine later. Its been brutal at work, worked every day this week until 8," Nora admitted. "You wanted to be big city mouse sis...hope its worth it!" Gretchen chided. After a few more minutes of sisterly banter, Nora signed off and headed to the shower. She emerged, wrapped in her last clean towel, to find the woman standing in her bedroom. Nora screamed, falling back onto to her butt in the carpet, losing her towel. The woman was a tall platinum blonde with amazonian proportions and gun metal gray eyes. She was dressed in a copper armor that hugged her curves and gleaned in the dim light of Nora's room. Stunned to silence, Nora backed away, tugging the towel over her body, until she was pressed against the wall. The woman smiled, but there was no warmth in it. She crossed the room in two strides and stood over Nora. She bent forward until her chin was nearly touching the top of Nora's head. "I'm the Valkyrie called Melania. I've been assigned to you. I will have your back in battle until you die. Then I will deliver your soul to Valhalla." Her heart beating so hard it hurt, Nora could only stammer, "but I'm a paralegal", weakly. The Valkyrie stood. She shook her shoulders and great black wings unfolded, seeming to swallow all the free space in the room. Nora felt the scream and covered her mouth with her hands. Melania smiled, a fraction less coldly, and extended a hand toward Nora. When Nora was on her feet, Melania folded her great wings away again. "People in your bloodline usually get demons, a few get the occasional angel but in the rarest of circumstances, they get a Valkyrie. The fact I've been assigned to you means you are destined to be much more than a paralegal Nora. It means you will be a warrior and I will fight beside you until your death. You will die hard but well and I will deliver your soul to eternal rest". Melania delivered this news flatly, without drama. Nora felt the blackness well up behind her eyes and the world shift under her bare feet. "Good thing this one didn't get a demon," Melania said, catching Nora before she hit the ground. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 963 October 28, 2016 Do you agree or disagree with this statement. "When you wake up at 2-3am without any reason there is an 80% chance someone is staring at you!" Have you ever woke up in the middle of the night and felt you weren't alone? Tell us about it. (not counting your other halves) Red digital digits blinked back at Stevie from the gloom. It was 3:04 am and she was, inexplicably wide awake. The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck seemed to be standing on edge and her forearms were prickled with gooseflesh. "Someone is here," the thought came, rushing into her mind with a frightening clarity. Stevie sat up, peered into the darkness at the foot of the bed. She tried to coach a shape from the inkiness there. She snapped her eyes to the open doorway of the bedroom, half expecting to see a shadow lurking there but it was vacant, just an empty doorway with only darker place beyond it. She swung her legs out of bed, shivering as her bare feet made contact with the cold oak floors. Stevie reached for the side lamp, switching it on. An arch of weak light cut into the darkness, driving it back a few feet. Stevie crossed to the door, walking out onto the landing, turning the light on as she moved. The landing was suddenly flooded with light. The bright overhead bulbs illuminated the small space, the bookshelf and easy chair in the corner, the top of the carpeted stairwell and thing crouching low on the first step. It raised its head, partially covered by one of its gray arms, and hissed at Stevie. It struggled to back down the stairs, attempting to move away from the reach of the light. Stevie felt her insides lurch at the same time her battle weary mind engaged the age-old language. The ancient tongue came back to her as it always did, rolling off her tongue. The thing on the stairs stopped moving and stared back at her with a sharp, new interest. Stevie sank to her knees on the landing, reciting the words that would call it to her. The thing began to rise and creep closer. As it moved into the light, Stevie saw with some dismay that this was a new breed. She would need more than the old prayers this time. |
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