A Day From…

Eyes are open
But there is no light
The sky is rippled with the colors of shadow
And despair
The journey of one moon has brought with it
The Underworld
Superimposed on my own

Brimstone of ice
Scorching cold
Wind’s fierce breath in my hair
Searing my skin
His coarse groan whispering in my ear

Ghosts of ice
Misty mignons across my path
The bottom-feeders of Hell
Float in their onward dance
For souls to claim
Wanderers with malicious intent

Fractured grass
Frozen in its brittle pain
Pushes through rough ice
The world awash with death

Out of sight in the haze and fog
The devil himself plays among skeletal trees
Whipping Wind into an angry frenzy
Grinding Temperature into submission
Until suffering is universal

This day

January 29
Belongs to Hell

What The...

We got this letter in the mail today. We are completely perplexed. I originally scanned it, but the file was huge and it had my last name on it (gasp!) so I'll just type it up for you.


Prayer Answering Service, LLC
PO Box (number)
Omaha NE (zip)

Date: January 20, 2008



Dear Mr. and Mrs. (Hoodie)

Thank you for your recent multiple requests through our service. Sometimes it can be difficult to make big life-changing decisions and fortunately our business operates with the intention to help individuals and families who find themselves in situations such as your own.

We have taken into consideration all of the facts, circumstances, and intangibles and have decided to answer your prayer in the following manner:

YES

NO X

If you have any further needs, questions, or complaints please direct them through our customer service department that is open all the time.

Sincerely,
(completely illegible scribble)
Clerk # 51




What do you make of this?

Lost and Found

Ever find money in a pair of pants or a coat pocket? Awesome feeling right?

I found something even cooler. I put on a jacket I hadn't worn for a while and inside one of the pockets was a folded up piece of paper. After reading its contents, I was able to remember writing this weird little snippet in my daughters notebook and then ripping it out and putting it in my pocket so no one else would find it. I don't really remember what sparked this or where I was going with it, but I vaguely recall thinking it stunk, which is probably why I didn't continue it. Anyway, I thought I'd share, in it's completely unedited version, this short little piece of fiction from days gone by.

(Untitled)

A lady knows how to get what she wants. A gentlemen knows how to give it to her. The words didn't stray far from the girls scarlet lips as she repeated them continuously, pacing under the lattice work of limbs from the tree. Shiny curls bounced against porcelain cheeks as the long grass flattened beneath chunky heels.

"Even the greatest fool would have seen the choice was clearly carrot cake," she sputtered, subconsciously smoothing her blouse. A crystalline tear caught the hazy sunlight as she stopped and stared imploringly at the trunk of the tree. "How could he do that to me?" she wondered aloud. "I mean, cheesecake?" Her arms folded across an ample bosom as a betrayed bottom lip spilled outward.

The sun grazed the distant fields as she continued her dignified pout. Then, resolutely she pulled out a slim pocketknife, hilt in ivory, and carved a precise line next to others on the trunk and stomped off, determined the number 33 was the gentlemen she was after.

The Answer!

I asked you all to guess which of the five pictures in the post below was me.

Here were the voting results:

#1 - 1 vote

#2 - 0 votes (what, nobody thinks I'm a veterinarian?)

#3 - 2 votes

#4 - 3 votes

#5 - 2 votes

I found all these pictures by googling my first name. The four that aren't me I've never met.

So, I'm not as old as the lady in the first picture, though when I am I hope to look that good. She doesn't really look old at all, but she is clearly older than me.

You all are right than I'm not a veterinarian or a vet's assistant.

I'm not blonde, although I've dyed my hair so many times I'm not sure what the exact shade of my natural color is. A mousy brown, methinks.

And lastly, I don't wear heavy eye makeup and regrettably find myself achingly far from any beaches. Though that girl's blonde streak is similar to something I'm sporting right now.

Yes, I am indeed number 4. Part of me regrets revealing what I look like, dashing the mystery I was becoming comfortable in. But I know how much I like knowing others and felt it was time to offer a little more of myself to my limited, yet oh-so-loyal, readers.

Y'all are my friends.

And friends should know each other.

This photo was taken at my husband's company Christmas party where I was named reigning karaoke queen and my husband and I were dubbed best dance couple. It was a good night.

Under the Hood

Sometimes after I read a book I look at the picture of the author on the cover and think, "yeah, that's exactly what I thought they'd look like." Other times, the picture is nothing like the mental picture I'd developed.

Funny how the simple choice and construction of words on a page (or screen) can give you a subconscious picture of what someone may or may not look like.

Here's a little fun for y'all.

I'm coming unveiled. Sort of.

Let's have a vote. All of these people have the same first name. Which one is me?

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

On the writing front, I've got nothing for you right now.

That makes me sad.

I'm not writing much lately. My world is filled with runny noses, dirty diapers, juice spills, bubble baths, laundry mountains, sippy cups, macaroni and cheese, crackers in the carpet, story reading, floors that need sweeping, sheets that need changed, Candyland, Thomas the Tank Engine, Strawberry Shortcake, booster seats, mittens, Did you brush your teeth?, Don't sit on your brother's head!, No more books in the toilet!, the clean-up song, etc. etc. etc.

I feel like any creativity I may posses is shriveled like the balloon that we got free at Applebees two weeks ago but we are aren't allowed to throw away upon threat of a full blown fist-pounding tantrum. We CAN'T throw it away Mom. It still has some some air in it.

What do you do to keep your idea nets out there and your writing brain functioning when real life seems to require more brains cells than you currently posses?

Safety in Distance

Two weeks ago in the town where I live (Omaha) a boy shot and killed 8 people, then killed himself, at the mall where I take my kids to play. It was a Wednesday. Wednesday is the day I take my kids to play there, usually, but we decided not to go that day. The shooting happened later in the day than we are usually there, but still, it is haunting to think of something like that happening so close to home.

It was a tragedy that has set the emotional timbre of the city dissonant. Yet I find myself very unconnected from the whole thing, relatively unconcerned. I don't think about it much at all and haven't really mourned much for those people who lost their lives.

When I took the time to actually realize this I was horrified with myself. What kind of unfeeling monster am I? But then I had to stop at that question because if there is one thing I am not, it is unfeeling. I feel things much too strongly in general. My siblings have agreed that my greatest fault is that I'm overly sensitive.

So what gives? It doesn't seem to make much sense. Then, as I sat reflecting on the situation, I tried to relate it to my emotional response to other tragedies and a pattern began to form. I thought of Katrina, the tsunami, 9/11 and realized that my responses to those were very similar with one exception. When news would roll of those happenings I'd change the channel. I averted my eyes from the news articles. The exception was 9/11.

The thing about 9/11 that just overcome me was the images of people jumping from the buildings. Putting myself in their places was the most terrifying feeling I could imagine and I couldn't face it. I refused to imagine what I would do in their places. Cold, electric panic would fill my chest every time I thought of it. It was too much for me.

I have come to realize that when the unthinkable happens, I do just that. I don't think about it. It's a safety mechanism I have developed, because if I let it in it will take over and I won't be able to handle it. I am so overly-symphathetic that things like that just tear at my insides and overcome me with fear.

So I'm not heartless. I've just developed self-preservation. I've come to realize the truth of this because when I really force myself to start thinking about these events, letting the people become real to me, I feel that terror reach in and I have to shut it off before it overpowers me.

In writing, if something becomes too horrific the reader starts to find it funny. Emotionally it becomes too much to handle. That's why people laugh at slasher movies. (I learned this concept from the great Mr. Card.) The key, in my opinion, is taking it to the threshold without taking it too far to elicit the maximum emotional response. When truly horrific things really do happen and it's not fiction, many people don't know how to process it.

How do you respond to horrific events and how does it affect your writing?