I thought if would be fun to write a short horror story on this blog. It usually helps me with creativity when I tinker with a genre I don't normally write. Here goes. Not plotting, just pansting. Not editing, just writing, just having a good time.
DAY OF THE MOLES
Tara leaned against the window. The gentle breeze shook the curtains. She frowned. It would only take a few minutes for her hair to get tangled. The rain had just abated. Soon she'd be able to go outside and tackle the moles. The ugly little critters had dug craters all over the yard. She sighed. She'd been blinded by love. That's the way it works for young brides. When Sam suggested they move to the country, well, she had been eager. Anything to please him. Besides, the country would provide a peaceful atmosphere in which to raise their kids. They might even get a few dogs, but those damn moles had to go.
"Tara, you're thinking too hard again."
The voice at the doorway interrupted her train of thoughts.
"Sam, did you call the exterminator like I asked you? I can't do everything around here, you know."
Sam regarded his young bride. His friends had teased him about marrying a woman half his age, but it had been out of his control. One look at those golden curls and honey-coated eyes and he'd been smitten for life. He reached out, took her in his arms, and silenced her complaints with a hardy kiss until she panted for air. Then, and only then did he answer her question.
"They're only moles. If you're so worried I'll go out there as soon as it stops raining. You shouldn't get so wound up. It's bad for the baby."
He rubbed a warm hand over the expanse of her belly. She glanced down at the large fingers then up at the tender smile playing at the corners of his lips. Her heart swelled. All frustration was easily forgotten. Before she could utter another word, he left her there by the window and hurried outside. She tucked the curtain aside and watched him exit the house with a shovel in his hand.
Sam glanced at his wife then held aloft his shovel like a sword. The theatrical gesture was mean to amuse her, but it made him feel like a knight. He dug deep into the ground succeeding in scattering a few moles. Casting the shovel aside, he dropped to his knees and peered into the hole. He thought his saw a paw.
A swift shove of his gloved hands found him elbow deep in dirt. He dug to the right, then to the left, then straight down. The scent of moist earth tickled his nose. The air tasted like nature. Immersed in the moment, he dug even deeper. Surely, moles would not burrow so deep.
He made to straighten up but couldn't move his arms. It was as if something were holding him still. He tugged harder, but the thing wouldn't let go. The moist earth that had just seconds ago offered so much comfort was growing warm, now hot. He squirmed, turned his head about, called out to Tara.
The young woman hurried out of the house. She almost stumbled over the threshold trying to reach her beloved. Two yards separated her from the broad expanse of his shoulders. She reached out. The piercing sound of his scream paralysed her with fear. Two seconds later, when she could finally propel her legs forward, Sam, the man who had become her life, had been swallowed by the ground. All that remained was a tattered shirt and a puddle of blood.
Socrates believed that the gods provided us with a type of insanity. The illness was responsible for poetry, mysticism, love, and philosophy. He called it Divine Madness. We call it intuition, inspiration, the muse. Regardless, I have been contaminated. This blog is an attempt to share the ramblings in my head by the subtle stroking of keys. I'm going to touch upon those situations that move me and define me as human.
4/20/11
The Open Window
I believe that the majority of situations and things we encounter in life are tools to be used in improving ourselves. This goes for religion as well.
I was raised Catholic. After the whole two paragraphs containing mild sexuality issue I was even placed in Catholic school. Oh, I loved it. Every opportunity to grow closer to God was...well a godsend. Since then, I've expanded my views. To judge one religion or forgo understanding the other seems like a waste. If you don't keep an open mind you might be missing half the story.
This poem seems at first like a secret affair of two young lovers, but it’s actually religious. Toward the end it sounds rather suicidal to me. The problem is that I never once thought of taking my life when I was a depressed teen, but I did want relief from my loneliness.
A smile or two set me aflame last night
I didn’t know I would see you there.
You were quiet, gentle, with a tender stare.
You reach out to me to run to your side.
I was afraid at first, a bit hesitant, but that
smooth twitch of your lips brought me peace.
I didn’t know what to say, but I saw you
Standing there expectant, and I ran to you.
I squeezed myself tight to the warmth of
your body.
Then I saw it, your wondrous smile,
and I cried.
What were you doing there? It was only
an open window, and the moon became
your face. I was standing there pleasantly
in your arms.
You said, “Don’t worry.”
I said, “Lord, I know I’m safe with you.”
Then I spread out my arms, and I flew.
Now my soul is still flying, and it finds
it’s resting place near that open window
where you held me in your arms, and
where I felt your love a second time.
I was raised Catholic. After the whole two paragraphs containing mild sexuality issue I was even placed in Catholic school. Oh, I loved it. Every opportunity to grow closer to God was...well a godsend. Since then, I've expanded my views. To judge one religion or forgo understanding the other seems like a waste. If you don't keep an open mind you might be missing half the story.
This poem seems at first like a secret affair of two young lovers, but it’s actually religious. Toward the end it sounds rather suicidal to me. The problem is that I never once thought of taking my life when I was a depressed teen, but I did want relief from my loneliness.
THE OPEN WINDOW
I didn’t know I would see you there.
You were quiet, gentle, with a tender stare.
You reach out to me to run to your side.
I was afraid at first, a bit hesitant, but that
smooth twitch of your lips brought me peace.
I didn’t know what to say, but I saw you
Standing there expectant, and I ran to you.
I squeezed myself tight to the warmth of
your body.
Then I saw it, your wondrous smile,
and I cried.
What were you doing there? It was only
an open window, and the moon became
your face. I was standing there pleasantly
in your arms.
You said, “Don’t worry.”
I said, “Lord, I know I’m safe with you.”
Then I spread out my arms, and I flew.
Now my soul is still flying, and it finds
it’s resting place near that open window
where you held me in your arms, and
where I felt your love a second time.
4/18/11
SEX
I think writing about sex is an issue for many writers.
How do we know when it's too much? What can we make our characters do? What should they show? Should I be descriptive, explicit? Well, should I put his hand here? Should I make her say this? Isn't it all remarkably like porn? I was always afraid of making my characters seem stupid. I would write a scene, then reread it.
"Great heavens," I would say. "If I read that out loud I'll be giggling like a school girl."
Now I reread my bedroom scenes and there is some really hot stuff in there.
I did two things to help me on this quest to better perform in the literary bedroom.
1. I asked questions. No, not questions from other writers or agents, etc. It started like this.
I was in bed with my hubby...ahem...just laying there, and I decided to ask him how it felt to be a man. It was a good question, I thought. I obviously don't possess his equipment. When I stand, my body is heavy in different areas than his. I wanted to know the nitty-gritty stuff, things girls aren't suppose to know just cause we're female.
It took him several attempts to answer. With each new answer, the burrow in his brow intensified, but I gained new knowledge. Then, I asked him what men talk about amongst each other when women aren't around.
"Good God," he said, "you're not putting that in any of your books. Are you?"
"Of course not, honey, but it's beyond my control if one of my characters chooses to experience it."
He wasn't much help in that department. It's a good thing I have brothers. You wouldn't believe the things men talk about in secret. I made a vow not to reveal it in this blog. However, this knowledge has been so helpful in creating my male characters.
After that, I read what I could on the subject of men and how they differ from women. I reached down into the psychological level. I invaded the man cave. I do love men, but I'm thankful each new day for being a woman.
2. I picked up several books from romance writers.
There are two extremes.
I had one writer who would stretch a romantic scene for 20 pages. It took her five pages to remove a scarf of undo two buttons because the guy was too busy either kissing or caressing.
My reaction: Will you hurry up and get to it already.
By the 20th page, she had delivered the scene beautifully. I had to fan myself for about 5 minutes.
The second writer was so brief that she left me hanging. She got right into it. I felt cheated. Toss that book aside.
I felt my place was somewhere in the middle. The reader knows best. We don't want to be bored to tears, and we certainly don't want to be left in a state of frustration.
When I picked up the third book, the main character was having an orgy. When is it too much?
Today's society is not so prim. Everyone is having sex.
I decided the best way to tackle my problem was to keep it natural. We use real experiences to write well. Why not do the same for sex?
Just something to think about. Now a quote from someone who knows.
*
A promiscuous person is a person who is getting more sex than you are.
~Victore Lownes~
How do we know when it's too much? What can we make our characters do? What should they show? Should I be descriptive, explicit? Well, should I put his hand here? Should I make her say this? Isn't it all remarkably like porn? I was always afraid of making my characters seem stupid. I would write a scene, then reread it.
"Great heavens," I would say. "If I read that out loud I'll be giggling like a school girl."
Now I reread my bedroom scenes and there is some really hot stuff in there.
I did two things to help me on this quest to better perform in the literary bedroom.
1. I asked questions. No, not questions from other writers or agents, etc. It started like this.
I was in bed with my hubby...ahem...just laying there, and I decided to ask him how it felt to be a man. It was a good question, I thought. I obviously don't possess his equipment. When I stand, my body is heavy in different areas than his. I wanted to know the nitty-gritty stuff, things girls aren't suppose to know just cause we're female.
It took him several attempts to answer. With each new answer, the burrow in his brow intensified, but I gained new knowledge. Then, I asked him what men talk about amongst each other when women aren't around.
"Good God," he said, "you're not putting that in any of your books. Are you?"
"Of course not, honey, but it's beyond my control if one of my characters chooses to experience it."
He wasn't much help in that department. It's a good thing I have brothers. You wouldn't believe the things men talk about in secret. I made a vow not to reveal it in this blog. However, this knowledge has been so helpful in creating my male characters.
After that, I read what I could on the subject of men and how they differ from women. I reached down into the psychological level. I invaded the man cave. I do love men, but I'm thankful each new day for being a woman.
2. I picked up several books from romance writers.
There are two extremes.
I had one writer who would stretch a romantic scene for 20 pages. It took her five pages to remove a scarf of undo two buttons because the guy was too busy either kissing or caressing.
My reaction: Will you hurry up and get to it already.
By the 20th page, she had delivered the scene beautifully. I had to fan myself for about 5 minutes.
The second writer was so brief that she left me hanging. She got right into it. I felt cheated. Toss that book aside.
I felt my place was somewhere in the middle. The reader knows best. We don't want to be bored to tears, and we certainly don't want to be left in a state of frustration.
When I picked up the third book, the main character was having an orgy. When is it too much?
Today's society is not so prim. Everyone is having sex.
I decided the best way to tackle my problem was to keep it natural. We use real experiences to write well. Why not do the same for sex?
Just something to think about. Now a quote from someone who knows.
*
A promiscuous person is a person who is getting more sex than you are.
~Victore Lownes~
4/15/11
Date Night
Nothing is quite as important as spending time with those you love. In order to satisfy that agenda, my husband and I have designated Fridays as date night. That means no writing for me and no sports of any kind for him.
Finding a new place to eat that we both agree on can be tedious. He eats anything under the sun. I watch my carb intake and frown on fried foods. Sometimes we get creative and venture far away from home. One day, we happened upon a place called Shucks.
They serve seafood. Now, I spent most of my life in Florida. I had my pick of restaurants by the ocean, juicy oysters brought out in buckets, jumbo shrimp. Cool, I thought. Bring it on.
We entered the super-busy establishment. It took us about 45 mins to be seated. That was just enough time to debate over the items on the menu. There was an appetiser titled "roundabout". It contained samples of oysters from 3 coasts. Hmm, okay, variety.
They brought us a tray that resembled a garbage can lid. On it were 12 perfectly arranged oysters. My hubby and I exchanged a glance. We waited for the waitress to leave.
He leaned forward and said,"I thought you said they were going to be cooked."
I peered into those hazel eyes and scrunched up nose and said, "How was I suppose to know you midwesterners serve raw oysters?"
He snorted. "It's a delicacy."
I frowned. "So is escargo. You don't see me sucking on any snails."
"Should we send them back?" he asked.
I shook my head, disgusted. "Oh no. We're eating these babies."
I took in the complete view of 12 raw, watery oysters, with a hardy accompaniment of horse radish. 1/2 for him, 1/2 for me.
I opened a napkin. slipped an oyster on it, smashed the water out of it, stuck in onto the back of my tongue, and quickly swallowed. It helped not to breathe. While the others followed, I watched my hubby devour his oysters like a pro, commenting how the horse radish enhanced their flavor. This from the man who won't eat green beans.
Note to self: When in Nebraska, eat beef.
I joke about the midwest, but I've lived in Nebraska for 10 years now and would not trade any of these precious moments.
We spent about $100.00 that night. We laughed hard and even cried a little. Horseradish will do that to you, or it could just be the gagging reflex.
Time for a quote.
*
Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years. ~Simone Signoret
Finding a new place to eat that we both agree on can be tedious. He eats anything under the sun. I watch my carb intake and frown on fried foods. Sometimes we get creative and venture far away from home. One day, we happened upon a place called Shucks.
They serve seafood. Now, I spent most of my life in Florida. I had my pick of restaurants by the ocean, juicy oysters brought out in buckets, jumbo shrimp. Cool, I thought. Bring it on.
We entered the super-busy establishment. It took us about 45 mins to be seated. That was just enough time to debate over the items on the menu. There was an appetiser titled "roundabout". It contained samples of oysters from 3 coasts. Hmm, okay, variety.
They brought us a tray that resembled a garbage can lid. On it were 12 perfectly arranged oysters. My hubby and I exchanged a glance. We waited for the waitress to leave.
He leaned forward and said,"I thought you said they were going to be cooked."
I peered into those hazel eyes and scrunched up nose and said, "How was I suppose to know you midwesterners serve raw oysters?"
He snorted. "It's a delicacy."
I frowned. "So is escargo. You don't see me sucking on any snails."
"Should we send them back?" he asked.
I shook my head, disgusted. "Oh no. We're eating these babies."
I took in the complete view of 12 raw, watery oysters, with a hardy accompaniment of horse radish. 1/2 for him, 1/2 for me.
I opened a napkin. slipped an oyster on it, smashed the water out of it, stuck in onto the back of my tongue, and quickly swallowed. It helped not to breathe. While the others followed, I watched my hubby devour his oysters like a pro, commenting how the horse radish enhanced their flavor. This from the man who won't eat green beans.
Note to self: When in Nebraska, eat beef.
I joke about the midwest, but I've lived in Nebraska for 10 years now and would not trade any of these precious moments.
We spent about $100.00 that night. We laughed hard and even cried a little. Horseradish will do that to you, or it could just be the gagging reflex.
Time for a quote.
*
Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years. ~Simone Signoret
4/14/11
Dance with an Angel
This is a brief dance with an angel as experienced through the eyes of a young girl. To me, it always depicted innocence, yet there was a secret longing. She wanted to be more than flesh. She longed to embrace his reality.
DANCE WITH AN ANGEL
The floor will be lit just for us.
Spectators will be gathered around us.
We’ll even hear their applause.
Across the room we will turn and glide,
lost in each other’s embrace.
What could they be celebrating,
the onlookers will say.
He will smile and conquer my heart
with his charm.
Speechless, I’ll reach out and take
his arm.
I see and idea allowed birth in his eyes.
He raises my body to teach me to fly.
Hey, I don’t have wings so don’t even
try.
Look again was his quick and ardent
reply.
There were butterfly wings sloping
over my sides.
Then he lifted me up to the skies.
We’ll fly to the peak of the mountains
and soar upon valleys so wide.
We will play with the air’s sweet caresses
and even try racing the tide.
We will do loop da loops on the rainbow
and sunbathe on a cirrus cloud.
We will travel the air rubbing elbows
and laugh with the love we’re allowed.
Then he brings me back, sets my feet
on the ground.
I like it up there. I don’t want to go
down.
Don’t leave me sweet angel, you’ll
tear me apart.
I’ll always be with your, just look in
your heart.
I still see my angel and feel his embrace.
He filled up my heart with his infinite
grace.
He vanished before me, fingers still on
my face.
His kiss was so sweet. I’ll remember the
taste.
Before my eyes he appears no more,
yet I know for eternity we will soar.
4/13/11
About Souls
I have enjoyed the privilege of having animals in my life. I've had ferrets, birds, cats, fish, and dogs. They've taught me so much about human kindness. My experiences with them have led me to write them into my books.
Unconditional love comes in many guises.
These are my babies.
heart failure. I held him in my arms as the vet administered the injection that put him to sleep. I watched his
The tri-colored sheltie on the right is Xanadu. I lost him three years ago to congestive eyes glaze over, heard his last breath, and felt the moment life left his body.
It affected me greatly to lose him in physical form.
Three days after his death, I heard him barking so loudly it woke me up from deep sleep. I realized he had come to reassure me that he was okay. If any fool tells you that animals don't have souls, tell them they're wrong. They just haven't looked deeply enough into a dog's eyes.
The recollection still moves me to tears. Everytime I see or hear a spirit, it only serves to prove that we are more than just our flesh. If we were to aknowledge how wonderful we truly are, we would never harm each other.
I opened my eyes, glanced over at my husband. He moaned and shifted in bed, but then again, he never did train himself to awaken to the sound of barking.
I pasted Xanadu's picture to the other one using a stitch program. My husband told me it doesn't match. He looks bigger than the other two, and the snow is whiter.
He just didn't understand.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "It matches perfectly. Xanadu looks larger because he is in a higher place. The snow is whiter because snow is always brighter in heaven. The other dogs are barking up at him."
I adopted Deedra, my golden sheltie on the left from a sheltie rescue. She had been abused and neglected. It took me a year to get her to trust me, four to get her to trust my husband and everyone else. Now she is a totally different dog, and I am so proud of her achievements. She suffered through Xanadu's death with me.
I adopted Stryker, the bi-black sheltie from the Humane Society after asking Xanadu to bring me a dog of the precise color and age. I found him 6 months after his death. He is only a few months younger than Dee. They are now inseperable.
When I write, I do it in a dog room/office. As I sit at my desk, it's with two fluffy poochies at my feet. It's my little piece of paradise, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
And now a quote from an animal lover.
Lots of people talk to animals.... Not very many listen, though.... That's the problem. ~Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh
Unconditional love comes in many guises.
These are my babies.
heart failure. I held him in my arms as the vet administered the injection that put him to sleep. I watched his
The tri-colored sheltie on the right is Xanadu. I lost him three years ago to congestive eyes glaze over, heard his last breath, and felt the moment life left his body.
It affected me greatly to lose him in physical form.
Three days after his death, I heard him barking so loudly it woke me up from deep sleep. I realized he had come to reassure me that he was okay. If any fool tells you that animals don't have souls, tell them they're wrong. They just haven't looked deeply enough into a dog's eyes.
The recollection still moves me to tears. Everytime I see or hear a spirit, it only serves to prove that we are more than just our flesh. If we were to aknowledge how wonderful we truly are, we would never harm each other.
I opened my eyes, glanced over at my husband. He moaned and shifted in bed, but then again, he never did train himself to awaken to the sound of barking.
I pasted Xanadu's picture to the other one using a stitch program. My husband told me it doesn't match. He looks bigger than the other two, and the snow is whiter.
He just didn't understand.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "It matches perfectly. Xanadu looks larger because he is in a higher place. The snow is whiter because snow is always brighter in heaven. The other dogs are barking up at him."
I adopted Deedra, my golden sheltie on the left from a sheltie rescue. She had been abused and neglected. It took me a year to get her to trust me, four to get her to trust my husband and everyone else. Now she is a totally different dog, and I am so proud of her achievements. She suffered through Xanadu's death with me.
I adopted Stryker, the bi-black sheltie from the Humane Society after asking Xanadu to bring me a dog of the precise color and age. I found him 6 months after his death. He is only a few months younger than Dee. They are now inseperable.
When I write, I do it in a dog room/office. As I sit at my desk, it's with two fluffy poochies at my feet. It's my little piece of paradise, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
And now a quote from an animal lover.
Lots of people talk to animals.... Not very many listen, though.... That's the problem. ~Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh
4/12/11
Ghost Stories
I decided to make this paranormal week.
In light of my decision, I thought it best to tell a few ghost stories, experiences from my childhood.
Before my great-grandmother bought her house, it was used as a midwife center. Stillborn babies were buried in the yard. At night, the rocking chairs will rock by themselves, and you can hear the sound of children playing down the hall.
During the Summer, when I was a child, we would vacation in St. Lucia. The beach was lovely, and the cabin spacious. There was an outhouse in the back. The use of the outhouse was forbidden after a few ladies complained of getting their butts slapped by naughty ghosts.
One of my uncle's wakes was performed at his house. Imagine our surprise when we caught his spirit standing beside his bed looking at his body.
When I was 12, my mother tood\k a part-time job at night cleaning offices. So that she could spend time with me, she took me with her a few nights. Offices are freakin haunted! While she was using the sweeper on the carpet, the ghosts were running down the hall.
While we were having dinner at my parents, a lady walked through the main door, past the kitchen and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. She was a ghost. We just looked at each other and kept on eating.
When I was 13 I was in a swimming pool. My mother started sweating cold and praying. There was a foul, smelly ghost beside us.
When I was twenty, I found myself in a bad part of town. I entered an abandoned building. There was no one there but me and a friend. A spirit found it necessary to tell me that we were in danger. He filled the entire room with awful body odor. We got out of there fast.
Aside from fireghost, I've seen a spirit walk into my step-son's room. He didn't sleep for a week after I told him. We couldn't figure out why he was carying a book.
A few days after my father-in-law died, my husband saw him running down the stairs. After his mom died, our bedroom was filled with the scent of lilacs. He still smells it from time to time.
Days after my husband's cat died, we were laying quietly in bed when the cat started meowing. This time, we both heard him. He just came to say he was alright.
All these stories are true. I'm not making any of it up.
Here's a quote from a wise man.
This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.
~Dalai Lama~
In light of my decision, I thought it best to tell a few ghost stories, experiences from my childhood.
Before my great-grandmother bought her house, it was used as a midwife center. Stillborn babies were buried in the yard. At night, the rocking chairs will rock by themselves, and you can hear the sound of children playing down the hall.
During the Summer, when I was a child, we would vacation in St. Lucia. The beach was lovely, and the cabin spacious. There was an outhouse in the back. The use of the outhouse was forbidden after a few ladies complained of getting their butts slapped by naughty ghosts.
One of my uncle's wakes was performed at his house. Imagine our surprise when we caught his spirit standing beside his bed looking at his body.
When I was 12, my mother tood\k a part-time job at night cleaning offices. So that she could spend time with me, she took me with her a few nights. Offices are freakin haunted! While she was using the sweeper on the carpet, the ghosts were running down the hall.
While we were having dinner at my parents, a lady walked through the main door, past the kitchen and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. She was a ghost. We just looked at each other and kept on eating.
When I was 13 I was in a swimming pool. My mother started sweating cold and praying. There was a foul, smelly ghost beside us.
When I was twenty, I found myself in a bad part of town. I entered an abandoned building. There was no one there but me and a friend. A spirit found it necessary to tell me that we were in danger. He filled the entire room with awful body odor. We got out of there fast.
Aside from fireghost, I've seen a spirit walk into my step-son's room. He didn't sleep for a week after I told him. We couldn't figure out why he was carying a book.
A few days after my father-in-law died, my husband saw him running down the stairs. After his mom died, our bedroom was filled with the scent of lilacs. He still smells it from time to time.
Days after my husband's cat died, we were laying quietly in bed when the cat started meowing. This time, we both heard him. He just came to say he was alright.
All these stories are true. I'm not making any of it up.
Here's a quote from a wise man.
This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.
~Dalai Lama~
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