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.
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.
4/29/11
4/28/11
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.
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.
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
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.
4/27/11
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....
*
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....
4/26/11
Horror Story 1, day 2
Yesterday I left poor Tara staring at the hole that Sam was sucked into. All that was left was his blood and tattered shirt. I'm going to fast forward to 30 years later.
*
Sara sat on the wooden rocker. The combination of motion and sound was lulling. Thirty years had passed, but it seemed like only yesterday Sam had been swallowed by the earth. The search had ended after the first two years. The town believed her to have gone insane, but it was true. She had been inches away from touching his shoulders when he was ripped from her grasp.
It was hope that kept her in the house, hope that wouldn't leave her. Jeremy begged her to move in with him and the kids, but she refused. It wasn't so much that she'd miss the house. He was her only son and the spitting image of Sam, the man she would always love.
"Mom."
The baritone voice captured her attention.
"Jerry, when did you get here? Where are the kids?"
"I'm alone, Mom. I thought we should chat."
She frowned and considered rising from the rocker. "I'm not leaving this house."
He crossed into the room. "You can't stay here for ever. You can barely move around on your own. Let me help you."
"Jerry, go home."
"Mother, this is important. For God's sake, think of your grandchildren. If you die here by yourself the cats will eat you. Then what do I tell them?"
She laughed. The cheerful sound surprised her. It held no place in the morose surroundings. "Everyone dies, Jerry."
"Look, I'm spending the weekend."
"You won't make me change my mind." She glanced at the window.
He followed her line of vision. "He's not coming back."
He didn't wait for a reply, nor did she give one. Instead, he entered the old study his dad had been so fond of. He dumped his things on the bed and sat down to ponder the situation. Having grown up without a father had been difficult on his mother. She had scraped, saved and borrowed to keep him fed and clothed. Now it was time he returned the kindness. He grabbed the bag, pushed it to the ground and laid back on the bed.
It was still light out. He hadn't eaten anything. None of that mattered. He was exhausted. Sleep came quickly. For one whole hour he snored unperturbed. The altering of the curtain, the shifting of the mattress, and the hot breath upon his face all went unnoticed. Then he felt the slimy tip of a tongue tenderly trace the curve of his jaw.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW...^-^....
*
Sara sat on the wooden rocker. The combination of motion and sound was lulling. Thirty years had passed, but it seemed like only yesterday Sam had been swallowed by the earth. The search had ended after the first two years. The town believed her to have gone insane, but it was true. She had been inches away from touching his shoulders when he was ripped from her grasp.
It was hope that kept her in the house, hope that wouldn't leave her. Jeremy begged her to move in with him and the kids, but she refused. It wasn't so much that she'd miss the house. He was her only son and the spitting image of Sam, the man she would always love.
"Mom."
The baritone voice captured her attention.
"Jerry, when did you get here? Where are the kids?"
"I'm alone, Mom. I thought we should chat."
She frowned and considered rising from the rocker. "I'm not leaving this house."
He crossed into the room. "You can't stay here for ever. You can barely move around on your own. Let me help you."
"Jerry, go home."
"Mother, this is important. For God's sake, think of your grandchildren. If you die here by yourself the cats will eat you. Then what do I tell them?"
She laughed. The cheerful sound surprised her. It held no place in the morose surroundings. "Everyone dies, Jerry."
"Look, I'm spending the weekend."
"You won't make me change my mind." She glanced at the window.
He followed her line of vision. "He's not coming back."
He didn't wait for a reply, nor did she give one. Instead, he entered the old study his dad had been so fond of. He dumped his things on the bed and sat down to ponder the situation. Having grown up without a father had been difficult on his mother. She had scraped, saved and borrowed to keep him fed and clothed. Now it was time he returned the kindness. He grabbed the bag, pushed it to the ground and laid back on the bed.
It was still light out. He hadn't eaten anything. None of that mattered. He was exhausted. Sleep came quickly. For one whole hour he snored unperturbed. The altering of the curtain, the shifting of the mattress, and the hot breath upon his face all went unnoticed. Then he felt the slimy tip of a tongue tenderly trace the curve of his jaw.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW...^-^....
4/25/11
Horror Story 1: Scary Stuff
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.
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.
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~
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