Marbles.

Robin Berkley's entry I'm enjoying how different we interpret the writing prompts.

A dozen shiny spheres clunked against each other as Ally tipped open the brown cloth bag Daddy had given her that morning at breakfast. They were warm and heavy in her hand.  She looked around the playground hoping someone would offer to teach her how to play marbles.

A group of girls from her class huddled around a teen magazine, giggling.  Another group of girls had linked arms and were skipping across the yard singing. Most of the boys were flicking hockey cards against the school wall while a few played catch with a deflated football.

Her little brother, Greg, sat beneath a tree at the edge of the playground. He'd arranged some empty beers cans into a windy twisting train. She watched him move the lead can forward and to the right.  He used a stick to measure the distance between then cans then lined them all back up in their previous formation, just a few inches forward of their previous position.  Greg liked angles, exact measurements and geometry even though those things made Ally's stomach hurt.  She turned away.  He was fine over there playing by himself.

She spied Tommy and Max on their knees in front of hole they'd scratched out of the dirt.  Even though they were a grade older her than Ally, they sometimes talked to her on the school bus.  Tommy always wanted to know what she had for lunch and Max always told him not to be a bully.

Ally crossed the yard to watch them.  Tommy glared up at her.  "What do you want?"

She held the bag out for him to see. "Will you teach me how to play?"

Tommy grabbed the bag and spilled the marbles onto the dirt.  He sorted them out by colour and size.  "I'll take this one as payment." He held up a large black marble full of white clouds like a misty morning before dawn.

Ally shrugged.

"Try to get your marble into the hole without knocking our marbles in."  Max flicked a blue green marble as a demonstration.  "Whoever has the most marbles in the hole wins all of them."

The three of them knelt down to play.  It took a few tries for Ally to get the hang of it but she had one marble in the hole and two on the lip. Tommy's marbles were the furthest away and Max had two in the hole. His yellow marble clinked into Tommy's green one.

A squirrel ran past and Tommy kicked at it.

Ally yelled at him. Before she knew it, Greg barreled past her and shoved Tommy.  "Leave it alone!"

Tommy shoved Greg down into the dirt.  Greg kicked him and Ally threw herself on top of her little brother.  "Stop!" she yelled at both of them.

"Leave the little kid alone, Tommy" Max tugged at his friend as a crowd grew around them.

A pretty blonde girl strode up to them. Her two equally blonde and pretty friends followed on her heels.  Tracey planted herself in front of Tommy. "Leave him alone, Tommy or I'm telling Mom and Dad."

She whipped around so fast her long hair hit her brother in the face.  "I'm Tracey."  She held her hand out to help Ally up.  "These are my friends Terry and Tonia."

"I know."  Ally pulled Greg up with her and kept his arm around his small shoulders. He was still primed to fight.  "We're in Miss Stickles class together."

"Do you want to be friends?"

Ally narrowed her eyes.  Was this a trick?  The 3 Ts didn't talk to any of the other girls.  They went everywhere together and acted like no one else was in the world.

"Hey, anyone who takes on my brother is a friend of mine."  The other Ts nodded.  "I don't know why Max hangs out with him."

Max shrugged. "He's not all bad."

Tracey held out her hand.  With a scowl Tommy dropped a couple of marbles into it.  She dropped down onto her knees and flicked all three marbles straight into the hole.

Greg clapped and smiled. Ally released him.  He walked back to the tree and his beer can train.  A black squirrel sat at the base of the tree and watched him approach.  It didn't run off or scamper up the tree.

That was one of the things about her brother. Animals trusted him. They liked to be around him. The only time he ever showed any temper was when one of them was threatened.  Ally had spent most of his life protecting him from bullies like Tommy.

Tracey handed all of the marbles to Ally.  "Justice."

Ally looked at her brother content beneath the tree.  Tommy glared at his sister.  "I didn't want them anyway.  Marbles are a baby game."

Max rolled his eyes.

"Thank you."  Ally fished through the handful of marbles searching for the black misty one. She handed it to Tommy. A peace offering.  "Thank you for teaching me how to play."

He crinkled his face and kicked at the dirt.  "Nah, you keep it. I cheated you out of it."

"Nope.  It's only fair payment for the lesson."

Max cuffed his friend in the shoulder.  "Take it, Tommy. It's a beauty."

Tommy grabbed the marble. "You're alright. For a girl."

The school bell rang to end recess.

"Want to play again tomorrow?"  Tommy tucked the marble into the front pocket of his corduroys.

"She can't." Tracey looped her arm through Ally's.  "We're going to show her how to flip her hair so she looks like one of Charlie's Angels."

Ally smiled to herself.  Daddy was going to be so surprised when she told him he was right. Marbles did help her make friends.  He would laugh because Mommy had said no one would want to be Ally's friend. She was too strange.  She didn't know how to have fun.

Mommy was wrong. Ally had a lot of fun - especially when Tommy got beat by his sister. A girl. She had wanted to laugh until he looked like he was going to cry. He looked too much like her baby brother right then.

That made her sad. So she gave him the marble. It didn't mean anything to her.

Tommy ran ahead of her and shoved the marble under another guy's nose. "Look what I won!  Suckers!"

String, glass and Bowie

Robin's entry in the challenge

Ally and her friends did cartwheels across the lawn while David Bowie sang about spiders from Mars on the stereo speakers her mom had blasting from the kitchen.  It was a weird song.  She tugged her pigtails out from her halter strap, took a few deep breaths and chilled at the edge of the front lawn.  Gymnastic practice was hard work even if it did look like fun. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the street below but still, it was safer to practice their moves towards the house and away from the hill.

Terry, Tracey and Tonia all did back flips.  It was strange not to have a name that started with a T but it wasn't the only reason she felt like an oddball in their group.  Ally's parents were still married to each other.  She only ever received one set of presents at Christmas and birthdays. No trips to Disney like Tonia took with her dad so he could tell her she was going to be a big sister thanks to her new mom.  No pony lessons like Tracey got from her mom and new dad when they moved out of the old neighbourhood. Terry's parental bribes were more along the lines of concert tickets and the latest albums for all of her favourite bands.  They'd replaced the Bay City Rollers three times because Ally and the 3 Ts wore it out.  S-A-T-U-R-

"C'mon, Ally, get the lead out!" Tonia called.

She shrugged before tucking herself into a ball like the raccoon she'd watched roll across their backyard the other  night. It was annoying the way her parents treated her like a little kid when she was 12 years old, practically a teenager.  Ally was going to pierce her ears for her thirteenth birthday, just like Tracey did when she turned twelve.Mom and Dad promised she could.  They said she'd been really patient with her brother Greg and all the attention he got because he was slow.  Terry's brother called him a retard.  Ally had punched him on the nose.

She'd been expelled for three days from school because she punched him on the playground during recess. If he had said at home she wouldn't have missed any school. Mom said she was disappointed that Ally felt the need to resort to violence.  Dad took her outside and told her was proud of the way she stood up for her baby brother.

Almost as if she had conjured him up by thinking about him, Greg ran onto the front lawn and tried to stand on his head. Of course he fell over. He was as co-ordinated as a piece of string.  If someone didn't put his body into the right position he fell over. A lot.   He followed the 3 Ts to the edge of the lawn at the top of the hill.  All stopped to tie up her shoe. It would hurt if she tripped over it while setting up a cartwheel.

"Look, Ally Bally Bee! I tumble just like you."  Greg dropped to the ground and started to roll, backward down the hill.

"No, Greg, stop!"Ally ran across the lawn but it was too late. He'd slipped over the side and was headed for the street.

Greg giggled like a madman.  Her friends screamed and Ally ran faster than she ever had before in her life.  Halfway down the hill, with every breath in stabbing her throat, Ally got in front of her little brother.   Momentum barreled him right into her legs and she fell too.

Blue sky, blue car, green grass. Blue sky, blue car, green grass.  They flipped past her vision faster and faster til it was just blue and green.  Everyone was screaming. She could hear them but had no way to stop.  Blue green bluegreen bluegreenblue.

She wrapped her body around Greg's and tucked him beneath her as they slid to a stop. The screech of tires filled her ears and she waited for the hot steel bumper to hit her.

Ally's arms shook as Greg struggled to break free.  If she could just keep him still, she'd be able to keep him safe.  She just needed to hold on.

Weird. She could taste the coppery strangeness of blood but she hadn't felt the car hit her.  Ally listened hard, tried to hear anything over her friends screaming.  Greg pounded on her arm.  "Let go, Ally!!! Let me go."

She smelled the older boy before she saw him. Incense and weed, her neighbour Doug always smelled like that. Her parents told him not to come around the house but sometimes he plunked himself in a lawn chair at the end of his driveway.

Ally opened her eyes.  The blue VW bug sat a good twenty feet away. No dents on the hood or the bumper. "Are you alright?" the driver asked.

She nodded and sucked in a breath. Jeez that hurt. Greg climbed out of her embrace.  "That was fun."

A gasp from the driver was followed by more horrified screams from the 3 Ts.  She looked Greg over head to toe. He looked alright. He waved his arms around recreating the cartwheel somersault free-for-all that had carried them down the hill.

Why was it so hard to breathe?  Ally looked down at herself. Nothing strange there. Man, her back hurt.  She twisted but the boy, a high school boy with long blond hair and the greenest eyes she'd ever seen, put his hand on her arm. "Don't move."

She shivered. A high school boy touched her.  Just on her arm. It was no big deal. But the 3 Ts were going to ask her lots of questions about how that felt. Jeez.  It hurt to breathe.  Her back felt funny. The boy looked like he was going to be sick.

"Don't move. You'll just make it worse."

"Make what worse?"

Greg stopped bouncing around her friends and came back to Ally's side.  "Ally Bally."  He squatted down to examine her closely.  "Why do you have a big piece of glass sticking out of your back?  mom said we should  never play near glass. Never. It could hurt you."

"Glass?" Black spots popped and hopped around Greg's head. That was bad. Really bad.

"Yeah, a great big piece of broken glass."

The driver nodded.  "Someone dumped a mirror into the ditch. You must have rolled onto the jagged piece when you came down the hill."

"Ally!"  Her mom pushed her way through the 3 Ts and shoved the driver aside.  Her face twisted then smoothed out into her serious Mom face.  "Terry, Tonia, Tracey, please take Greg back into the house. Everyone have a glass of milk. There are cookies on the counter. Please stay inside until Mr. Robbins or I come to get you. Please."

The spots were more like a lava lamp, just blooping up and down all over her vision.  Hmm, her back didn't hurt as much.  How big a piece of glass could it be anyway?

"I love you Ally Bally."  Her mom's voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel.

Everything was cold. Nothing hurt any more. Her last thought was of the mirror she'd tossed into the ditch the other day.  The mirror she'd smashed to bits.  Except for that one piece that reminded her of an icicle.

Bowie's voice drifted down the hill. "There's a starman, waiting in the sky."

Tires, hockey, club, bakery and ivy

Follow this link to read Robin's Results.  Mine are below

Tires gripped the asphalt as the car hit the icy curve too fast.  The bungee cord holding the passenger door in place stretched to its point of no return. A white box slid through the gap before the door slammed shut.

Dave watched the retreating taillights and shivered inside the light hockey jacket he'd worn non-stop for the last two years. He slowly checked in both directions for oncoming traffic before he darted onto the road and retrieved the broken box. One red velvet cupcake stood straight in the center of the box while cookie monster, minion and spiderman cupcakes lay dented on their sides. Two Olaf cupcakes had fallen from the box to hit the pavement upside down.  Dave grabbed those two by their paper liners and snapped them off just above their contact point with the road. Pleased with the day's bounty, food for the aching belly and a cardboard hat, he hurried back to the relative warmth and dryness afforded by the underpass.  Nothing at his Ivy League school had prepared him for the harsh reality of a wind pelting him with snow with the level of ruthlessness a homeless man experienced.

As a journalist, he'd done his research. He had expected rough conditions, a scarcity of food and cruel people. His undercover stint as a homeless man had shown him the other side of things, the compassion, decency and creativity of people on both sides of the situation.

The freedom was unexpected. No longer a slave to deadlines, cell phones and demands of family. He thrived on the streets, living like a wild man dependent on no one or nothing that his wits in order to survive. No more country club, fancy cars or facials.

The freedom had been a surprise but no more so than the realization that he liked it.  Dave bit down on Spiderman's head. Eighteen months after the assignment finished, he whooped as the sugar hit his malnourished bloodstream. He was never going back to civilization.

Writing prompts update

Robin Berkley and I have decided to join forces to do the writing prompts twice a week and share with our combined readers. Anyone is welcome to join us. At the very least, I hope you'll be willing to toss a few words or phrases our way.

The schedule will be Monday - gather prompts for two sessions.
Wednesday and Friday post the results of all that creative brilliance.

The library's writing group does something similar with paintings. Artists and writers inspire each other. I'm not sure which comes first but the art that comes out of it, printed and painted, are beautiful.

Writing prompts don't take the place of novels but they do a great job of kickstarting the brain.  We like to make connections with even the most random of things.  These exercises embrace those connections. A paragraph can lead to a scene which can lead to a chapter.  Occasionally, they will inspire an entire novel.   Most books start from one idea.

So. Wednesday.  That's when you'll see what happens when you put tires, hockey, club, baking and ivy together.

Any other words you'd like to see us string together?

New Year, new goals

I'm thinking of a slight revamp to the blog. My life is no less crazy than it has been the last few months. I've got at least two more months of this insane care-giver schedule. The blog will continue to be neglected if I don't change it up slightly.

Not writing makes me cranky. To be more accurate, it turns me into a grade A bitch but I was going for creativity over honesty.  Today while waiting for my car to be healed at the garage, I wrote around 300 words. It needs a bit of tweaking before I share. The twist is dancing just on the edge of my consciousness.

The other thing I did today was find the photos of Stanley. I will scan them and see what they inspire.  I did pick up a crow painting by Kathleen Thorsen.(I'm having trouble connecting with her website but that link will show you some examples of her work)  It's encaustic which adds so much depth and texture to the painting.  Go check her out.

Every week I'll post a short story based on writing prompts provided by you, either over here or on Twitter. So Monday, send me five words on any topic. On Wednesday, I'll post the story it inspires.  That way, I'm back into a routine and the blog is active, even interactive.

Today's prompts were tires, hockey, baking, club, ivy.  The last two words are still missing. Once I figure them out, I'll post the answers - on Monday.  This week's schedule is a bit off just because it only came to me about an hour ago.

Depending on how Stanley's story goes, it will go up as a bonus treat some time in the next two months.  Trips to the garage, and a break from caregiving, are not that frequent.

See you Monday!

Animal Intelligence

National Geographic has a feature every couple of years about animal intelligence. It's a bar that's constantly being moved so they don't catch, or even surpass, humans in that area. Every time I turn on the news, I thinks it's too late.

Our multi-generational household is shared with two dogs, two cats, two parrots. All are rescues. The second parrot is the only one we went in search of. While they all comfort, love and entertain, they each teach me every day. The cats trick the dogs all the time, the dogs have taught us how to give them what they want and the parrots change the tone and inflection of common sentences to get an appropriate response from us.

Give any one of them an unfamiliar task and they will all find a way to complete it. Unless it's the cats. They never do anything they don't want to do.

With all this in-house entertainment, you'd be surprised how many videos I watch online of crows at play. They know how to have fun. Windshield wipers are an amusement ride, jar lids are toboggans and car hoods offer fresh snow on which to make crow angels.

Corvids, dolphins and octopus are the top three performers in self-awareness, intelligence and play. I've been fascinated by all three my whole life. Nothing will pull me out of a story faster than an author mocking animals.

I'm not back to typing full time yet but I have pulled out my sketchbook that is full of Stanley the crow. I think its time he got his own story. A little bit of romance, a touch of horror but definitely the happy ending he failed to receive in real life.

Merry Christmas

Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.  Let the scent of orange and clove drift through your memories of Christmases past.

Keep your eyes closed.  Inhale deeper.  Warm butter, a hint of cinnamon. Perhaps a dash of ginger gives way to the scent of mustard, croissants and sausage.

Old Christmas tunes fill the air. Cheerful music about St Stephen, dragons and lambs all together on the most Holy Night. And in the distance the sound of children laughing in the snow, the sharp sting of snowflakes falling into young eyes searching the sky for their source.

The crinkle of wrapping paper, hastily torn and tossed aside. The clunk of heavy boxes, the whirr of robots and shouts of joy.

Then quiet as the baby lies beneath the tree, one tiny hand reaching towards the nearest twinkling light.

Peace on Earth. Goodwill toward man.

And love for all.

Attraction

The tang of citrus mingles with the scent of sandelwood just over my shoulder. I can feel your breath warm against my neck.  Your strong arm snakes around my waist and pulls me into the safety of your embrace.

My belly quivers as your hand slides up and over the taut peak of my breast. Just a quick skim that catches my breath then your fingers trail up my throat.  You tip my chin back and I open my eyes.

The shadowed blue of your gaze is filled with hate.

You know. Everything.

I open my lips to beg forgiveness. Your hand covers my mouth.

Pinches my nose.

I struggle for breath. My limbs flail.  My gaze seeks yours, locks on while I search for any spark of the man who loved me. Who betrayed me before I returned the favour.

There is a frozen landscape of rage between us. My hands and feet grow cold. A mist covers my vision. My ears filled with the thunderous sound of an avalanche headed my way.

You shove me to the ground. My body is a shell of its former strength, inert and motionless on the ground where it fell.  Jagged shards of oxygen stab their way to my lungs.

"Death is too good for you."  I hear your footsteps leave the room then stop. The sound of a body dropping to the floor is followed by a wail of grief so primal it makes my body shake in fear fills the house.

You have found her.

I look at the spray of blood across my legs and skirt.  I smile.

An abundance of cushions

A fork, a radio, full moon and a dump truck  all flashed through my mind the other night. I'm not getting a lot of sleep but lying in bed, words flow like bioluminescence.  I don't have the energy to write them all down but they soothe me to sleep. Eventually.

Sometimes they prompt scenes.  This one started out as radio silence spoke volumes but morphed into something a bit more adventurous.

The brilliance of the full moon in August shone a spotlight on the dump truck parked beneath the bedroom window. Filled to the brim with an old battered couch and an abundance of cushions buried beneath tattered clothes, a broken radio and a drawer of cutlery missing all the forks, the truck looked as out-of-place as a rocketship in a lion's pen. The window on the far left of the second storey opened with a screech and muttered curse.  One bare leg thrust through the opening to be quickly followed by a second leg then the rest of the body.  With a rolling dive that would make Greg Louganis proud, the gangly teenager landed in the back of the dump trunk. After a brief fist pump, he folded his skinny arms and legs around his body and sank beneath the cushions.

With a soft crunch over branches on the back lawn the dump truck made its way to its next destination. To pick up the next runaway. It pulled onto the county road, just another working vehicle transporting its cargo to the space station down the road. There the contents would be sorted into trash to be burned and organic materials for biodiesel. The teenager's dream of space travel would be realized.

Silver linings

Last Wednesday was hands down one of the worst days of my life. Every phone call, text and email was bad news. The worst was the one informing me that my dad had to have a triple bypass and aortic valve replacement. The rest of it was noise thwarting my plans to enjoy life. I'm not proud of my scorched earth reaction to the other things. It was mostly a case of needing to remove any and all negativity from my mindset. I accidentally deleted three people from my contacts. My phone has rebelled every day, randomly calling some people and hanging up on others. It's all a bit juvenile and ridiculous.

I haven't had much time for writing. My brain processes via nigmares and odd dreams while I nap. Sleep has been impossible. I write regardless of mood, emotion or opportunity. I write as a way to process. I write to entertain, to teach and to learn. Its what I do, I write.

At the moment, I'm buried beneath words of all flavours, texture and colour. The image that returns time and again is that of a dark stormycloud hurling lightning, hail and booming sound waves of doom at my house. Through the flashes of light, I see streaks of silver. Dad is in the best hospital for this kind of surgery, I have friends who support me with midnight hospital runs, nutritious soup, yummy ginger snaps, the ability to tear down my garage. It will be sad to lose the garage but we did our best to save it. The city won't allow us to replace and no engineer will sign off on repair. The insurance cheque will give us a much needed cushion.

While the sleep is elusive, the nightmares I experienced before my dad's heart attack are gone.  I've pulled a muscle lifting my mom as well as all the cleaning and organizing I've done. Odd thing, I heard and felt something crack in my hand when I was replacing the kitchen taps. My exercises are less painful now.  Typing can't be far off.

Otis (70 year old black man in 25 year old white boy's body) took me out for hot chocolate the other day and reminded me that a strong connection does not always equate into romance, nor should it.  He also reminded me the power of magic and love.  Several of my friends are finding people who bring out the best in them. I don't begrudge a single one of them happiness. Realizing that has been a boon.

That one day of horrible news hasn't destroyed my core belief that if you look you will always  find a silver lining. It's a bit Pollyanna of me but I'm more than fine with that.

Importance of stories

Since the beginning of humankind, we have gathered to share stories. It was a way to pass time by the fire, a way to teach each other the lessons of life, that fire burns, woolly mammoths are dangerous but provide food, shelter and clothing.  Stories connect us, unite us with shared memories, in laughter, love and acceptance.

Sometimes stories scare us.  They allow us to react in a controlled environment when the real monsters are too horrible to comprehend. We bleed off the fear and feel triumphant when we can defeat the monsters beneath the bed.

Stories inspire us with tales of love and devotion. They remind us there are good moments in the midst of bad.  That love often shines a light in the darkness.

There are big stories that touch millions like the Parisian man reassuring his son that love and kindness are more important, even stronger, than the bad men. Tigers pouncing on pumpkins make us laugh and elephants painting landscapes with their trunks inspire us to fill the world with colour.

There are the smaller stories, the ones your don't share with anyone else. A gentle touch on the back of the hand, a first kiss perfect beyond expectation or description, a smile that fills your heart because you alone could tease it free. The quiet of the night broken by the sound of soft breathing. The sweet scent of a child's hair as they slumber in your arms. Those are stories of love, of trust, of possibility and all the more precious for being held close to our chests, shielded from the rest of the world.

We need those stories. In times of stress, whether global or personal, they distract us, comfort us, inspire us.   Stories add colour, texture and depth to our lives in every way imaginable.  We are richer both in the telling and the hearing.

Thank you for your stories.

Writing is an exploration

It's been a roller coaster of a week.  I'm house-sitting at one of my go-to writer retreats.  This is the place I come to knock out five to seven thousand words over a couple of days. I'm starting a new story. I'm here for a week.

Writing is painful.  Literally causes a great deal of pain in my hand.  Physio this week was not only frustrating but discouraging.  Restricted use of my right hand continues. I've tried wearing bracelets and rings to remind myself to type one-handed. Yes, the pain should be an obvious deterrent.  When creativity flows, I ignore everything but getting the thoughts out. I pay for it later.

My editor came back with some BIG changes for the first book in the four-part trilogy.  Science has minimized or even solved some of the global crises I used as the basis for the hero's Quest. Several emails were followed by an hour long discussion on how to attack the rewrite.  I've had a few days to consider all the options and have found one that works for both of us. I'm anxious to fix it before I start the new book.

It is better to fix the mistakes of the past so that you can go forward with confidence.

Two books have helped me this week. A quick skim-through of An astronaut's guide to life to refresh my memory led to the new catchphrase, "What would Chris Hadfield do?" Dealing with life and death issues in space means he can't freak out and decide things are too hard.  Sometimes things break.  "Work the problem" is how NASA handles the unexpected.  Considering how much they train for every conceivable thing that could go wrong, that there is an unexpected is amazing. But inconceivable happens.

The other book I'm reading is a YA about the need we have to label everyone.   Openly Straight is fiction.  A young gay man chooses to move across the country and not tell anyone he is gay because that was the only way anyone saw him back home. His English teacher assigns semester long personal essays that follow E.L. Doctorow's edict that "Writing is an exploration.  You start from nothing and learn as you go."

Reading, thinking and the occasional jotting of notes will get me through this phase. Therapy will eventually strengthen my hand enough to get back to typing. In the meantime, I really need to mentally go through the manuscript and work out the best way to move forward with the original story and characters in a way that is less dated.

Sounds like a great way to work the problem.

Quiet

Music notes lifted from the keys to swirl around the yard like dying leaves on the Autumn breeze.

Colours collided in vibrant hues of orange, purple and gold.

Splashes of rain bounced off the dead soil.

Her eyelids flickered as his distinct scent tickled her into awareness, teased her up out of the dream about him.

The crash of the kitchen door.  A scream cut off abruptly.  Coppery scent of fresh blood.  Senses chasing her through her dreams turned nightmares.  Demons and ghosts with talons made of bone and the cold stare of Death.

Images piling on top of her, suffocating her, drowning her. Pain, the scalding hot pain of realization, speared her chest, robbed her breath.  Her body shuddered as her eyes opened wide.  Terror shoved adrenaline through her veins while gaze sought out answers. A silent room. An empty room

She willed her limbs into quiet.  Took a deep breath to restore vital oxygen to her panicked brain.  Nightmares. Only nightmares.  She turned her head towards his pillow, to the comfort of his scent, the reassurance that only he could provide.

Moonlight through the window exposed the sharp steel of the blade that lay upon the red stained pillow.  The scream lodged in her throat as the gloved hand reached down to silence her forever.

Music

Did you ever hear a piece of music so perfect you wanted to climb inside the notes and be surrounded by the exquisite beauty?  And no matter where you go in life or what happens after you carry that feeling inside you, being part of the music and it being part of you. You and the music make the world so much more through that exchange. Kisses are music.

Sing to me.

Strange fascinations

I feel for my physiotherapist.  I am incapable of silence when in the company of others.  This is a bit of a surprise to me.  Regardless, I ask him tons of questions about physiotherapy, ultrasound, treatments, changes in medicine over the last twenty years and how they affect his practice. I ask about patient patterns, industry growth and improved understanding of the human body when it comes to physiology, kinesiology and psychiatry.

I have always been curious about science and medicine. Both of my grandmothers were nurses, my brother and nephew were both born with a malabsorption issue and my family has had all sorts of life-altering diseases.  The more I've understood the better equipped I've been to helping them out whenever possible.

Books have been the gateway to knowledge for as long as I can remember.  Fairy tales and nursery rhymes hid life lessons from an earlier times.  My dad encouraged me to understand the symbolism and parable in each.

The thing is that no matter how much I learn, it's the tip of the iceberg to what I can still learn. Books tell me so much but trained professionals and experts can teach me so much more.  I ask a few questions then listen to the answers.

It's not just my physiotherapist I subject to my interrogations.  Friends, family, strangers on the Internet are all fascinating subjects for me to interview.  I explore the vastness of space and the microcosm of biology, the complexities of human behaviour and the simplicity of faith, the cruelty of fate and the kindness of whimsy.

I don't think fascination with life and all it holds is limited to me. I think it's a very strong foundation of most writer personalities. It gives depth and interest to our characters, our worlds and our stories.

What's your strange fascination?

Ch-changes

I've been busy working on the business side of writing. That's not my skill set. I write.  However, I've consulted with several people who are in total control of their writing careers, as well as people who excel in the various departments.

There are some changes coming to the blog. Some changes coming to my writing routine.  Most importantly, there are some changes coming to the story-in-hand process.  I am torn between terror and excitement. Fitting as I write both romance and horror.

As soon as the new stuff is up, I'll let you all know.  Excuse me while I go freak out.  Change is scary. But vital.

#WhyIWrite

A friend recently asked why I write fiction - like it's a choice.  There are stories in my head at all times. Like two people getting seats at a hockey game, each wearing jerseys from the opposing team. If they are teams that have been rivals since the  beginning of the league even better. My brain automatically writes  the rest of the story. Maybe there's a mutual attraction. Maybe they agree to let the children choose a team for themselves.

Or a wedding photographer meets a bridesmaid at several different weddings. To him it's just a lucrative job. He's divorced and determined to never risk his heart again.  She's a hopeless romantic.

The stockboy has been stalking the cheerleader for weeks. One night he approaches her behind the store where they both work. She stabs him in the eye with her car key.

I could probably think of twenty more scenarios without even trying.  Better on the page than rolling around inside my head.

Why do you read fiction?

Community

The good news is we're reasonably sure we know why I was dizzy all summer - migraine. Apparently there's a migraine who's only symptom is dizziness. Figures. I now have four types of migraine on any given day.

This is interfering with my writing - and may account for my fascination with horror.

I've been reading a lot of non-fiction as well as fiction these days.  Losing myself in the worlds of others is a good way to actually find what's important to me, or answers to my own world. Dolphin research, missing indigenous women, depression lies and wonderful romances where the heroes rescue animals and the heroines catch the bad guys reaffirm how fortunate I am in the life I chose. When having a bad day, like putting the car in the wrong gear and moving the garage back two feet as a result, perspective is much appreciated. Things can always be worse. Sometimes, they can be a bit better but honestly, it's a good life.

That's been the primary takeaway from all that reading.  No matter how horrible the tragedies most of those people have faced, they have this amazing spirit, a determination to make their lives better as well as the lives of those around them.  Even the dolphins who seem to have wonderful lives swimming in the seven seas can teach us about community and supporting one another.  They assist each other in times of crisis and of joy.

I have a strong community of friends both online and in my daily existence.  Several suffer with migraines and have been helpful with tips for preventing them. Others live with depression and have given me a great deal of insight into what they experience so that I can support rather than judge their choices.  My insurance adjuster is funny as hell so that's helped, as have all the people I've dealt with throughout the process.

My writing buddy insists all of the above is fodder for the mill and she's right.  You just know I'm going to use some of it in a story somewhere.

Light and shadow

My friend and I abandoned an awesome art show for a few hours on Sunday to go play at Edwards Gardens.  It's not exactly Central Park but it is an oasis in the city.  We were a tad disappointed that so many other people felt the same way.  We had a creepy photo shoot in mind.  Not exactly something you can do without an explanation - or a plethora of horrified looks.

Exhibit A

There's a nice little gazebo. Dark and spider filled, it suited our needs nicely. We took a couple shots but the headless one is my favourite.  I think it was helped by the bulky white sweater I was wearing. It tricked the camera's aperature. Yay!

Exhibit B

I love shadows and all the wonderful things you can do with them. I particularly enjoyed the irony of using lush green grass as our back drop.  I call it Norman Bates meets Whistler's Mother.  The purse over my shoulder changed my shape so that I looked considerably older and wider than normal.  Still, I like it.

Exhibit C

Hmmm, I don't seem to have any photos of the tree that fascinated me with the way the leaves and light played together.  I do have one dark photo of me watching it all.I'm in shadow and holding my hair out of my eyes so I can see better.  Check out the creepy shadow on my arm. The tree is eating me!

In the end I decided against the committment it would require to lie at the bottom of the broken stairs beneath the police tape.  Besides, I prefer to throw the bodies down there, not be one myself.

Autumn

I had a good conversation on Twitter about writer's inspiration.  I realized that I'm drawn towards horror stories in the Autumn. The obvious correlation to Halloween isn't the only reason. Most of it comes from the scent of decay in the air.  Leaves turn to mould, apples rot on the ground, the by-product of wine grapes presses down on the air with its sour notes.  Mildew permeates everything.

It's also the time of Fall fairs with their carnivals and clowns.  "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."  I always associated that quote with Road Dahl and Ray Bradbury because they had such wicked observations of the nature of man.  I missed out on MacBeth by moving to another province midway through high school.

Yet, Autumn is my favourite season. The smell of wood smoke riding the cool breeze reminds me of Hansel and Gretel. Cotton candy and taffy apples or even apple cider to fill the blood with the sugar rush that makes me feel invincible, daring, confident I'll return unscathed from the dark basement.

It's the time of year when rats scurry from lodging to lodging for the perfect damp place to hide out the winter months.  Squirrels throw the empty walnut shells from the tree.  My yard is littered with the remnants of their gorging feasts. Claw marks decorate the outer blocks of our foundation.

Yet, I love it all. I love the smells, the colours of leaves as they age then float to the ground. I love the myriad textures of the ground as it cools and retains moisture.  Holes appear where before there was solid ground.  The rat-a-tat pop of shells hitting the deck and the angry chatter of squirrels squabbling over the late harvest.  So many flavours dance upon my tongue; pumpkin, peach, wine, fresh corn, squash, rich dark concord grapes.  Autumn is a feast for the senses.

Fear underscores it all. Fear that there won't be enough food. That we're aging faster than we like. That the ground will flood. That the crops won't return next spring.  That there are things waiting in the dark more terrifying than we can imagine.

We like the fear because it shows we care.  We are attached to the return of all we need.  And we believe it all will.  It always has.

There's no reason to think it won't again.

But we enjoy the thrill of fear, regardless.