Poem Day: THE BEST.

This poem can mean so many things, depending on the reader. When I first wrote it as a teenager very much in the grasp of puberty and as someone so devoted to God, it was meant to depict the act of making love as seen through the eyes of the soul. That moment in which we forget that we are flesh and seek the union of souls, the glorious explosion that fractures us, makes us divine. 　
　                                  

                                                                  THE BEST　                                                     
                                                      

                                                       In and out I take my breath.
                                                       My time is everlasting.
                                                  
                                                       Don’t jump or cry or feel a threat.
                                                       There’s pleasure in the making.

                                                       Life up my veil of human flesh.
                                                       Behold my anxious specter.

                                                       Omnipotent kiss of lips afresh.
                                                       Place your hand on beating breast.

                                                       Delight my speech with endless woos.
                                                       Arouse my tears with sacred skin.

                                                       Tantalize by being true.
                                                       Become my careful kin.

                                                       Create a quake to make me tremble.
                                                       To man, my heart I shall not test.

                                                       Alas, my God, he is so gentle.
                                                       My heart, my love, to him the best.

Horror Story 1, day 4

I felt today would be a good day to toss in a little horror since I left the moles hanging.

Sylvana sat on her dusty throne beneath the earth. She was the last of her kind, the sole survivor of a race of mole people. The others had perished. They'd been hunted like deer and burned in rituals. It was the way of the sages, a group of humans who held them in the same regards as an abomination. She had been left without a mate. It had been revenge that had propeled her at first, but then it transformed into a basic emotion, that of loneliness.

For ages she had been hiding, biding her time, searching for the perfect consort in the form of a human man. Few had come her way. An array of men lay at her feet, some in the form of dried out cadavers. It didn't matter to her as long as there was flesh.

Thirty years ago she had the good fortune of encountering her recent lover. The world upstairs called it a stealing, a murder. They assumed that he was dead, but he had called to her. He had met her halfway. It was his hands that had dug firts. Once she had a hold of his arms, there had been instant magic. She took him.

"Sam," she called to her lover.

The man walked over to her ignoring the shackle fastened to his right ankle. "My queen, I'm here."

She reached out her hand. He took it, brought it to his lips. He had served Sylvana for thirty years. At first he had thought her repugnant. Her lack of eyes alone was enought to churn his stomach, but the years had revealed an unexpected kindness. He held steady while she touched him. The queen relied on him for pleasure, for love. She trusted him. He glanced down at his ankle. Yet she still kept him in chains.

"When will you release me, my queen?" he asked.

"You will leave me if I remove your chains and return to your maiden."

"That maiden as you call her is an old woman now. She's long gone. I have been faithful in my love for you."

She brushed clawed fingers through his hair. Should she tell him that the woman had remained, that she still loved him beyond reason? No. He would leave then. She would be alone again. Regardless of his pretty words, he would leave her. She knew much about love and about need. She wasn't so very different from his human bride.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Paranormal Romance

The one paranormal story that I'm focusing on is called "Bless Me Twice". Titles might not mean much, but to me it gives the story life, a sense of ownership and a life of it's own.

I started it about two weeks ago and have poured my first 50 pages into it. By the time I'm done editing them, they'll be 100.

The hero was easy. I knew his voice. Everything about Marcus shimmered and called out to me. I didn't need to date him. He was the one and definitely a diving force in this novel.

The heroine was a different issue altogether. At first it was difficult to connect with her, prefering instead one of the lesser characters who will also have her own story told soon. Lucy was sounding like a dimwit. Clearly, that was not the role I wanted her to play. What to do, oh what to do? The answer was simple. Keep on writing. She would eventually fall into place.

Keeping that in mind, I came up with a few villains. It's funny but I never have trouble finding villains, and they're all remarkably attractive.

Last night I sat at the computer around 9:00 and plucked away. Well, it was late. I was tired, yet the most amazing thing happened. I connected with Lucy...finally. The connection is important for the story to flow. Now I've filled her with my voice and brought her to life. I feel like a puppet master tugging on her strings, and it's a wonderful feeling.

The muses are whispering that this may very well be a quartet. I'm just going along for the ride and having an awesome time writing.

Paranormal Romance

I know I said I'd write more horror today, but I'm feeling fickle and felt like blogging about writing.

A while back I mentioned that I can't write a good paranormal romace without having it shift into fantasy. I'm happy to say that is no longer the case. I'm presently working on three paranormals, no, not really simultaneously. See, it starts out something like this.

I conjure a character, usually the heroine. I decide what she'll look like, how she'll act, and if she will possess some unusual ability. Then I choose the hero. Naturaly, he will be someone I would most certainly go gaga for. Next, I contruct their meeting. Then I pour everything in my head into the pages until I'm exhausted.

That done and over with, I set the project aside and go do something else, but wait, I get another idea.

"My God," I say to myself, " that would make a great book." So I go back into the office/dogroom and start a new story. I've grown quite fond of beginnings.

The third attempt is usually the instant that I organize and come up with some type of order for the possible giberish I've set down on paper. That's when I insert a plot and introduce the villain and the conflict. I'll edit, remove a few sections, add a couple more. Chances are that if they don't work for one book, they might do perfectly well for another.

I place the unused paragraphs in a separate draft for later use.

Finally, I wait to hear the inspiration of the muse, that feeling that draws me to one of the stories I'm writing and pushes me to dive into it and proceed to the end.

Elevator Stalking

One of the advantages of working for a huge company is that I can perfect my skill in elevator stalking.  Years ago I noticed that the minute people enter an elevator they look at the walls, at the numbers, at the ground, anywhere but at each other.  It they do happen to entertain a glance it's to offer a quick smile and return their attention to the ground.


I decided I would always be the one to break the ice.  When I walk into an elevator I say hello to everyone, comment on something I might spot, and establish a conversation that will usually draw in everyone.  My co-workers get a big chuckle out of it.  They feel shy in elevators.


The fact is that we all go through life ignoring each other, pretending we're by ourselves.  Where's the fun in that?  There are incredible people out there, so many of them it can literaly take your breath away.


I've discovered an old man who shares a love affair with life, a young girl who fosters a meth baby, two people that have recently fallen in love.  It's amazing.


From a writer's point of view I will say that an elevator is also the best place to pick up dialogue for any book.  Listen to those who share this world with you.  They provide tidbits that might become the stories of legends.


Have a great weekend!


STAY TUNED FOR MORE OF THE HORROR STORY ON MONDAY.

Poem Day

There was an old lady I used to visit. She was a very kind woman who happened to live with her husband and two sons, all of which suffered from severe Schizophrenia. She was the glue that bound them together. She fell into a coma after an intense heart attack. They say it helps if you read to someone in a coma. Sometimes they’ll snap out of it. That’s what I did, but her time had come. I wrote this poem while sitting at her death bed.
Reading over it today, I think I was trying to discuss her two choices. Either die or come back. Then, I asked her to take me with her.
　
　

CRY HIGH MIGHTY GULL

　

Hear the seagull’s cry, a thousand
flutters in my heart.
Where is she? Where has she gone?

Hear a life of tribulation, nestlings
gone berserk, chest without a heart to
fill it.

Cry high mighty gull for all to hear.
Wail of a great lady be resounded
among the waves amid the stars
where feathers touch.

Pierce your call of triumph
great queen of ocean sky.
In these I’ll see your eyes forever.

Toss mighty sword and torch of light
and let another rule.


With second thought and if you will
to prey upon the skies some more, take
up your light and raise your head,
and love me like before.

We shall fly on hand in hand
like sisters of the wind.

Horror Story 1, day 3

We left Jeremy on the bed fast asleep.  Unknown to him, a creature was lapping his face at leisure.

                                                                        *

The scent of the trail of saliva was too bad to ignore.  Jerry sat up with a start.  For a split second he beheld the form of a woman, but that minuscule fracture in time was enough to engrave her appearance in his mind forever.

The beast-woman was over six feet tall.  Her shoulders were broad.  Muscles sculpted her all the way down to her toes.  All of that seemed normal.  It was her face that gave him pause.  She had no eyes.  Where there should have been sockets all he could make out was flesh.

Who was she?  He surveyed the full expanse of his father's study.  Where had she gone?

The sound of a manic scream forced him out of bed.  It was his mother.  He hurried to her room only to find her sitting on the floor.  Her cream nightgown had been soiled.  After closer inspection he discovered it was blood.

"Jerry!"  She reached out to him.

Two lengthy steps led him to her side.   "Mom, are you hurt?"

"Did you see her?"  She shook him.  "Tell me you saw her."

"What was she, Mom?  Have you seen her before?"

"Only once," she said.  "She's the one who took your father."

He held her at arm's length.  "You said that dad was sucked into a hole.  You blamed it on moles."

"The moles belong to her.  She took him," she insisted.

"This is insane, Mother.  What could that creature want with dad?"

"Can't you see, Jerry?  Don't you understand?  She wants the same thing I wanted thirty years ago.  The mole queen was lonely too."

"Mole queen?  Jesus, Mom, you've gone delusional on me.  Stay here.  I'll call the cops."

She held on to his shirt.  "Jeremy, don't leave me.  Please, we have to find her.  She has him."

"Mom, Dad died that day.  Remember?  You saw his blood, his shirt remains."

"She has a cave somewhere like all other moles.   She has him."

"He's dead!" he insisted.

She shook her head, frantically.  "He's alive I tell you."

"How can you say that?"

"I just know."  She broke into sobs.  "A wife always knows."


TO BE CONTINUED....