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Serial Story: Don’t Look Away, Ch. 28

This serial story is posted one chapter per week on Fridays, in unedited (draft) form. It may contain adult situations that might not be suitable for children. Missed a few chapters? Email me to catch up. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

 


Don’t Look Away
Rattlesnake Falls, Book 1

Chapter 28

“I’m just a friend,” she said, instictively showing her hands and trying to ignore her racing pulse. “Dillon was kind enough to let me have his guest room for a few nights.” Pasting a smile on her face, she extended her right hand just a little. “It’s nice to finally meet you – he’s told me so much about you.”

It was clear from the widening of the woman’s eyes that she was taken off guard by that, but she didn’t take Shelley’s hand.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, her eyes narrowing again. “Dillon’s a man, and men don’t just let women stay in their houses without wanting something more. I don’t blame him – men need what they need and I’ve been away working. But I’m here now, so you’re going to have to leave.”

Shelley nodded. “I can do that.” She took a step toward the short hall that led to the front door. “I’ll just be on my way then.” If she could get out of the house, she could run to the administration office and find Dillon before this woman did.

“Don’t you want to get your things?” The woman’s eyes darted toward the other hall – the one leading to the bedrooms, and Shelley knew she must have come in the back door and passed the open guest bedroom on her way to the kitchen. She didn’t want to waste time – she just wanted to go get Dillon, but she had to make this convincing, so she nodded.

“Of course – silly me. Let me just get my bag and I’ll get out of your way.” She moved toward the other hall, slowly. “Have you seen Dillon yet?”

“None of your business. Hurry up.”

Shelley hadn’t seen a weapon yet, but she didn’t feel comfortable turning her back all the same, so she sort of side-stepped down the hall. The other woman definitely gave off an unstable energy, and Shelley just wanted to get the hell away from her. She could see why Dillon was so paranoid.

“That’s a gnarly scar on your face,” the woman commented as Shelley went into the guest room and hastily threw stuff in her bag. “Where’d you get it?”

Shelley considered giving her the same reply she’d used just a minute earlier, but considering things were still reasonably amicable, she decided against it.

“There was an accident when I was a child.” She didn’t offer more, just zipped up her bag and turned to find Dillon’s stalker blocking the doorway. “I’ll just let myself out now. Congratulations on your engagement.” She tried to make it sound sincere, but the other woman didn’t look like she bought it. Not that it mattered, as long as Shelley could make it out of the cabin.

Moving aside, the woman nodded her head. “Thank you.”

It was a tense walk to the front door, and Shelley pulled it open, hoping she could find Dillon quickly.

“One more thing,” the woman said from behind her. Shelley turned and raised her eyebrows, waiting. “What’s my name?”
Shelley frowned. “I don’t think you ever told me– ”

“No, I didn’t. But you said Dillon talked about me all the time so surely he mentioned my name at least once. What is it?”
Shelley shook her head. “He didn’t say your name, I swear. I’m sorry, but that’s something you’ll have to take up with him. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

She has no weapon, Shelley reminded herself. Just go. She walked through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind her, even though she thought she heard the other woman speaking again. Striding purposefully down the trail away from the cabin, she didn’t stop, even when she heard the door open behind her, and the woman’s voice following. She had to warn Dillon, and as soon as she knew she was out of sight from the cabin, she started to run.


Thanks for reading! Check back next week for Chapter 29!

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Serial Story: Don’t Look Away, Ch. 27

This serial story is posted one chapter per week on Fridays, in unedited (draft) form. It may contain adult situations that might not be suitable for children. Missed a few chapters? Email me to catch up. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

*Note: A lot of this scene is me working out backstory for Shelley, which I should have done much earlier in the book. It will probably be integrated into earlier parts of the book and a discussion with Dillon eventually.


Don’t Look Away
Rattlesnake Falls, Book 1

Chapter 27

After breakfast, Shelley watched Dillon walk down the trail from his cabin to the camp’s administration building. He’d invited her to go with him while he helped check in a large group of campers, but she’d declined. She hadn’t had any time to herself since this whole debacle started, and all she wanted was a shower and some space to think.

Ten minutes later, she stood under the shower and let the warm water slide down her skin. Running her hands over her face, her fingers traced the scar extending from just outside her left eye down and across her cheek, ending just above the left corner of her mouth. It had been there so long now that she wasn’t sure she’d know who she was without it. It had been Tabitha’s fault, kind of. They’d been playing in Uncle Andrew’s barn when they were kids, and Tabby had pushed her into a pile of hay. Only an old rusty combine blade had been hiding underneath, and Shelley had rolled right into the very last disk…with her face.

She’d been in first or second grade at the time, and she didn’t remember much after Tabby pushed her, just a lot of blood and pain, more pain in the ambulance, and way too many shots before she finally passed out at the hospital. When she’d woke up, Aunt Jane had held up a mirror so she could see the long line of stitches in her face and told her she was going to look like the monster her namesake wrote about as her punishment for playing in the barn when they’d been told not to.

Everything about that moment was clear as a bell in Shelley’s mind. Tabby laughing and pointing, the mixed look of contempt and satisfaction on Jane’s face, and the look of sympathy and horror on the nurse’s face as she watched, and then quickly took the mirror from Jane and told her visiting hours were over.

That nurse had been really nice to her. Brought her ice cream and found cartoons on the TV so she could watch with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. She’d spoken in hushed tones to the doctor later, and some woman in a suit had come in and asked a bunch of questions about Jane and Andrew and the barn, and then she’d gone back home with Jane and Tabby. They hadn’t visited Uncle Andrew much after that.

Jane had favored Tabitha before, but Shelley figured that was because Tabby was actually her child, and Shelley wasn’t. After the accident, Jane had constantly drawn attention to Shelley’s face, apologizing to strangers for it, telling Shelley not to look at people, and making sure Shelley knew that no boy would ever want to date her. It had taken many years for Shelley to leave that way of thinking behind, and oddly enough, Tabby had been one of her most staunch allies, negating much of her mother’s commentary – often with a well-timed eyeroll.

No. Shelley turned the shower off and toweled dry. The Tabitha she knew would not do that. She wouldn’t just blindly follow whatever Jane said, especially when it came to Shelley. She pulled on clean clothes and went to her bedroom, digging her cell phone out of her bag. She was going to call the hospital and talk to Tabby. Get everything straightened out once and for all.

Padding out to the kitchen for another cup of coffee, she tried to get a signal and couldn’t. Leaving the phone on the counter, she poured her coffee and went to the island and picked up the landline handset, pressing the button to get a dial tone.

Only there wasn’t one. She frowned at the phone, pushed the button again. The light came on, but the line was dead. She wondered when Dillon had last tried to make a call.

Putting the handset down, she sipped her coffee and considered her options. She could either wait there at the cabin until Dillon got back, or walk down to the admin office and let him know the phone was out. She remembered the cell service being better at the base of the camp where it was more open, so she could probably make her call down there anyway.

The coffee was only lukewarm from earlier, and she downed the rest of the cup and rinsed it out in the sink. Turning around, she reached out for her phone, but it wasn’t where she’d left it.

But a woman was standing on the other side of the kitchen, holding it in her hand with a smile that looked more like a grimace. The stranger didn’t mince words.

“What are you doing in my fiance’s house?”


Thanks for reading! Check back next week for Chapter 28!

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Serial Story: Don’t Look Away, Ch. 26

This serial story is posted one chapter per week on Fridays, in unedited (draft) form. It may contain adult situations that might not be suitable for children. Missed a few chapters? Email me to catch up. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

*Note: Sections denoted with an asterisk are new details that will eventually be added to the earlier parts of the book as well. 


Don’t Look Away
Rattlesnake Falls, Book 1

Chapter 26

Dillon sat beside her, his expression contrite, but there was something else there too. Something she couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“I thought you were a plant,” he said, not bothering to beat around the bush, which she appreciated. “I had a stalker when I came back from California. That’s part of the reason I moved way out here and started running the ranch – so it would be harder for her to find me. I love it here, so it was a good decision, but from what I hear, she’s been hiring private detectives to try to figure out where I am. I thought you might be one of them, playing a part. You were interesting. Too interesting for one of those speed-dating desperadoes.”

Shelley frowned. “But you gave me your card. Why would you tell me who you are or where the ranch is if you were afraid I was a detective? Isn’t that kind of the exact opposite thing you should have done?”

He shrugged. “I figured if you were looking for me specifically, you already knew who I was. I guess maybe I thought if I could just talk to you, I could convince you not to go back to her with the information. But when I had Preston run the background check to find out your “real” identity and you didn’t have any ties to her whatsoever, I figured if we hit it off, we’d eventually talk about the stalker thing and the background check thing and my general paranoia.”

“I see.” Shelley was quiet for a few minutes, trying to process everything. “You have a stalker.” Saying the words aloud felt weird, like she’d been transported into some bad classic comedy. “Is she trying to kill you, or…what does she want?”

“I met her when I was working in Silicon Valley.” Dillon paused to take a sip of orange juice. “We were friends, I thought, but I never asked her out, never even went to lunch with her without someone else around, and I didn’t think I showed any kind of romantic interest. But apparently I was missing some key clues that she was into me, and the next thing I know, I’m getting cards and flowers and gifts at my desk, at home, left on my car…all from her, all saying she loved me and would do anything for me and begging me to marry her.”

“That sounds like more than just a crush.” Shelley took a sip of her own orange juice, relaxing back into the seat. “Is that when you moved back?”

He shook his head. “The company transferred me to another branch – not because of her, just because they needed someone with my skills up there. I jumped at the chance to move and thought that would be the end of it. And it was, for about two months. Then she showed up in town and started the same old shit again. That’s when I quit my job, packed up my stuff and moved back here, without a word to anyone about where I was going.”

Shelley nodded. “How long ago was that?”

“About three years ago. I still have a couple friends in that area who keep tabs on her for me – one of them called last week and said she’d been showing off an engagement ring lately. Which would be great news – except she’s telling everyone that I’m her fiance.” He sighed and reached for the bacon, helping himself to two strips.

“Wow.” Shelley shook her head. “She really is unhinged, isn’t she? The police can’t do anything? Seems like she should be institutionalized or something.”

“Nope. Not unless she does me physical harm. And to do that, she has to find me, but…she seems pretty determined.”

“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” Shelley’s stomach rumbled, to her embarrassment. Dillon grinned.

“We should eat something. Is that…are we good? I’m sorry I ran the background check without saying anything, I just needed to make sure you weren’t connected to her.”

“I understand why.” Shelley took the plate of pancakes he offered, and put two on her plate before handing it back. “I still feel kind of…I don’t know. At a disadvantage, I guess. You know all there is to know about me, but I still barely know anything about you.”
Dillon held up one finger and got to his feet. “Hold that thought for two seconds.” He walked to the sideboard and picked up a thick yellow mailing envelope.

“I know this doesn’t make up for it, but I want you to have this. I had Preston run a background check on me too. It’s all in here – I told him not to hold anything back. You can read it at your leisure. It’s yours to keep.”


Thanks for reading! Check back next week for Chapter 27!

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Sleep With Me  | MacKenzie Saves the World: A Comic Shop Romance | BeauTEAful Summer

Serial Story: Don’t Look Away, Ch. 25

This serial story is posted one chapter per week on Fridays, in unedited (draft) form. It may contain adult situations that might not be suitable for children. Missed a few chapters? Email me to catch up. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

*Note: Sections denoted with an asterisk are new details that will eventually be added to the earlier parts of the book as well. 


Don’t Look Away
Rattlesnake Falls, Book 1

Chapter 25

A frenzied feathered chorus and the smell of breakfast sausage woke Shelley from a deep sleep. Confused, she shifted on the bed, her pillow too soft and the blankets heavier than her own. She blinked a few times, staring at the ceiling and thinking back to the last thing she remembered.

Falling asleep in Dillon’s truck.

She thought she had the vague impression of being carried into the cabin, but that couldn’t be right. She must have woken up enough to walk inside and take off her shoes. Checking under the blanket, it looked like she’d had enough energy to shuck her jeans too. It was light outside, and she wondered how long she’d been sleeping.

The clock radio beside the bed said six-twenty in the morning, but that couldn’t be right. They’d left the hospital just after sunrise. She couldn’t possibly have slept nearly twenty-four hours.

Tossing the covers back, she sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed her face. Those birds outside sure were chipper. And loud. Breathing in deep, she inhaled more of that wonderful sausage scent. Her stomach rumbled. No matter what the clock said, it was time for breakfast, apparently.

Standing, she looked around the room and found her jeans on a chair by the door with her travel bag. She pulled the jeans on and rummaged through her bag for a clean shirt and socks. Pulling her hair back into a neat ponytail at the base of her neck for now, she opened the door and padded down the hall to Dillon’s kitchen.

“Wow.” The word sort of slipped out when she saw the spread on the table. A plate piled high with pancakes sat by a whole pan of sausage and a big bowl of cut-up fruits. Buttered toast, two different syrup containers and a pitcher of orange juice completed the meal. Dillon was at the counter pouring two cups of coffee with his back to her, but he turned when she spoke, and it was all she could do not to crack up laughing at his bright red apron sprinkled liberally with rubber ducks all decked out in different little outfits. with his bare chest and jeans underneath, ti a She grinned.

“Nice apron.”

He looked down, and then back at her with a wink and a smile. “Thanks. It’s my chick-magnet. Get it? Chicks? ”

Shelley groaned and rolled her eyes. “Seriously – that is so bad. And those are ducks, technically. Does it work?”

“That’s up to you. Want to kiss the cook, pretty lady?” He sidled closer and wiggled his eyebrows, turning his head to present his cheek and tap it with one finger. Shelley laughed and leaned in to press a soft kiss just there but he turned his head at the last second and her lips met his instead.

Tentative and gentle, his mouth moved against hers, and she ignored the niggling feeling that she shouldn’t be doing this as his hands slid around her waist and pulled her closer, hugging her tight as he placed tiny kisses down the side of her jaw and neck.
Then he just hugged her close, and she turned her face into his chest and breathed in the warm, comforting scent of him. When he pulled back enough to look at her, she didn’t want to let go.

“You looked like you needed a hug.” He smiled, caressing the side of her face with one hand. “Now let’s eat, before all this food gets cold, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

Shelley nodded, reluctantly letting go of his shoulders. Talking. His revelation from the day before came flooding back, and a sick sense of dread settled in her stomach as she sat down, suddenly not hungry.

“I think we should talk now. Why did you do that background check on me?”


Thanks for reading! Check back next week for Chapter 26!

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This & That

I’m running late again (imagine that, right?), so just bullet-points for now. I’ll pick one of these for a deeper discussion/exploration next week. Or later this week, maybe. I do have Wednesday off work…

– Took my Note tablet apart last week, pulled the battery, and it’s running fine now (check last week’s blog for that saga).
– My new tea kettle works great (whew!)
– Went for two bike rides this weekend, a short one around the (very hilly) neighborhood Saturday, and then 6.7 miles (round trip) on Sunday to visit my parents. Good exercise, that, and pretty darn fun, too.
– Posted what I think is a pretty interesting discussion topic and writing prompts on the BSB blog today.
– Scheduled excerpts to post on my alter-ego sites this week, and I’ve discovered a couple of stories that need minimal editing/work to be ready for publishing from those two. Stay tuned…
– Next tattoo appointment is this Wednesday at 1pm. I’ll be getting poison bottles put on my inner arm, which is probably going to hurt a lot but it’s gonna look really cool. Pictures soon! I took Weds morning off work too…because I can.
– Graduation party Saturday for a friend’s kid who’s graduating Sunday. And of course, next Monday is a holiday. Yay!

That’s what’s goin’ on! Mostly.

Poem-A-Day Challenge: Week 4 (Final!)

Whew! National Poetry Month is over, and while it was a good learning and habit-forming experience, I have to say, I’m glad it’s over. Of course I didn’t do this alone – Carol R. Ward also wrote a poem every day in April, and she wrote a different form every day as well. It’s her fault I did this, if you recall correctly. I can’t decide if I owe her lunch or she owes me, at this point…but I can say with confidence that we’re both glad to be done.

Without further ado, the last week’s worth of poems, for your perusal, amusement, and/or heavy sighs/groans (it’s okay – they’re drafts – you think I’m not groaning at some of these too?):

Saturday, 4/22: The Storm

Sometimes you see the dark clouds forming,
sometimes you don’t.
Sometimes there’s a sputter, a drizzle, a warning,
sometimes the downpour just starts.

It feels cosmic, the uncanny knack
of catching you unaware.
One moment you’re settled, content, relaxed,
the next you’re gasping for air.

The eye is a tease, a time to rest,
or prepare for
whatever darkness is coming up next.
If you can catch your breath.

The storm is alive, a powerful call,
to survive everyday,
It lives, it breathes, it mocks us all,
whose plans have gone astray.

Sunday, 4/23: The Big Question

Why does “bad” exist?
asked the boy one day
to a woman he thought of as wise.
Why can’t we all just be good?
he mused, as they sat there and
looked at the sky.

Without bad there’s no good,
she answered, staring up
into the blue.
Without bad it would all just be same,
she mused, and I’m not quite
sure what we would do.

Think of how happy we’d be,
he said. No more murder
or theft or fear.
Think of the things we could do,
he mused, without worry of
how they’ll appear.

Life doesn’t work quite that way,
she said. Consider the
basics of earth.
Life must have balance or
cease, she mused. Without
sadness there is no mirth.

Bad gives us choice, a decision,
she said. It gives us the
freedom to choose.
Bad gives us contrast and balance,
she mused. Without that, the
earth would collapse.

So bad is good?
the boy asked, resignation
accenting his voice.
So what do we do,
the boy mused to himself.
How do we keep ourselves sane?

Look at the sky and clouds,
she said. Keep an eye
on what’s healthy and good.
Look inward and choose to
be good, she mused. Be the
balance to “bad” everyday.

Monday, 4/24: Nesting Crows

Through the nearly naked branches
they flit and wobble and jump.
Little black revelers on a hunting party
for the perfect, breakable twig.

They laugh and flap and carry on,
flying off now and again.
One perfect stick is all three of them need
to celebrate a suitable win.

Tuesday, 4/25: Eleven Things

I see you standing there
judging me silently.
What is it this time?
My lack of forced smile,
my bare face,
my disregard for titles and accomplishments?

Maybe it’s my tattoos, but
that seems so cliche.
My non-designer clothes,
my metal-filled ears?
Or just my
general distain for the endless small-talk loop.

I laugh too loud,
or not enough,
snicker at all the
wrong things but
I just take
everything far too serious, too literal, too thoughtful.

I know where I
fall short, why I
don’t fit in, how I
could change.
But I am who I am. Like who I am. Just gotta be me.

Wednesday, 4/26: Tick-Tock

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
I stare, and type, and stare some more.
Backspace is a fickle friend.

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
I rush to get ready for work and more.
Showers are a friendly devil.

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
I work and think and work some more.
Money is a devilish master.

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
I always end up racing the clock.
Perhaps I should stop.

Thursday, 4/27: Relief

Days like this I
long to be
up on a mountain,
under the trees.

Perched atop a
bold old rock,
watching a meadow,
maybe a fox.

Smelling the earth,
feeling the breeze,
hearing the waterfall
just through the leaves.

It’s peaceful here,
though nature is loud.
My soul finds peace in
the absence of crowds.

When darkness falls
and stars shine bright,
I’ll lay in the meadow
and drink in the night.

Friday, 4/28: Red & The Wolf

You’re a good granddaughter, going out
in the cool evening air,
basket of fresh baked breads in hand,
maybe a pie or two.

Your red cloak is bright against brown
bark, a beacon
of aid as you travel the well worn path
under the forest trees.

It’s quieter tonight — no birdsong
or insect buzzing.
The hair on your arms rises, the beat of
your heart quickens.

You drop your basket at the sight of
claw marks on the door.
You rush inside, a red streak that
matches grandmother’s blood.

He growls low, the wolf you thought
beautiful in the forest.
He waits half-under the flowery nightgown your
mother made, torn and stained.

It’s too late to run, you know. You
close your eyes
as he moves near, rotten, copper-tinged breath
hot on your face.

Your red cloak flutters to the floor,
shredded
as the huntsman approaches.
Is there life after death for you?

Saturday, 4/29: Through a Dog’s Eye

Sittin’ in the backyard,
squirrel up a pine tree,
being really quiet so
the little dude don’t see me.

Chompin’ on some tall grass,
actin’ all casual.
Sneakin’ in the garden ‘cause
it’s no place for an animal.

Maybe we’ll go walkin’ later
but I’m kinda lazy so…
might pretend to go along
and dig my heels in half-way home.

Layin’ on the patio,
see a kitty-cat go by.
Gotta chase him outta here,
kiss that furry tail goodbye!

Sittin’ in the backyard,
squirrel up a pine tree…

Sunday, 4/30: Poem 30

One month of poems,
thirty days in all,
a challenge,
a dare,
a siren’s grave call.

Poems about feathers,
of silence and noise,
of nature
and nurture,
of sorrows and joys.

A change in perspective,
new focus each day,
more words,
new skills,
better habits for May.

The poetry challenge
is done now, it’s true,
pen down,
notebook closed,
‘til once more it calls you.

*****************************************************

Did you write any poetry this month? Better yet – did you read any?

Poem-A-Day Challenge: Week 3

Whew! I kept up better this week, but I’m not sure the poems are any better (and some of the daily prompts were…difficult, as you might be able to tell from a few of the poems).

One more week to go – and next week’s post will be up sometime Sunday, as that’s the last day of the challenge (that way I can post the full week’s poems together).


Saturday, 4/15: Rejuvenation

There in the wasteland I heard the voices.
They called to me with whispered fervor
I could not ignore.

There flows a river in the cave, they murmured.
Immerse yourself in the dark damp womb.
Listen to the silence.

I found the maw and entered the gloom,
let the rushing black water infuse my soul.
Waited in meditation.

Anguish and anxiety considered a toll,
freely sacrificed to quiet the river roar.
Flood of emotion.

Silence at last reveals a musty, moist core
full of secrets stale as the dank, slimy ground.
A heart wide open.

Let everything out while there’s no one around,
examine, release, tidy up, empty out.
Listen to the voices.

Spirit renewed, it’s the end of a drought,
Rise and leave the dark damp behind.
Find light and laughter.

Sunday, 4/16: Piloting

Nothing above me and nothing below,
the wind is my playground
the sky is my home.

Swooping and swaying on currents unseen,
I catch a big air-wave
surf my mighty machine.

Roll left, then right, then into a dive,
my stomach jumps lightly
reminds me I’m alive.

Someday I’ll go higher, straight into the stars,
zero-gravity beckons,
and perhaps even Mars.

Monday, 4/17: If Only…

If only I could capture in words what I feel
and spin them into wonderous stories
when I sit down in the deep dark of night.

If only the thoughts that swirl and bounce
could be expressed in words and freely shared
when I need to be there for a friend.

If only all the sage wisdom of our ancenstors
could be collected in a bottle and used as vaccine
when idiocy touches people in the head.

If only there were a way to take a trip and
experience all the many lives we might have lived
when we made one choice over another, over another.

If only sleep was quick and deep and restful,
uninterrupted by demons or nightmares or cold feet
when my head finally settles heavy on the pillow.

Tuesday, 4/18: Shower Spectre

The shower is warm,
the curtain is tight,
a cool draft ‘crossed my body
brings no real delight.

A noiseless whisper
of soul brushing skin,
I shiver when touch comes,
spin ‘round again.

Who are you, I murmur,
and what do you want?
my shower is really
no place for a haunt.

No answer is given,
nor will ever be.
I suspect that my spectre
is only just me.

Wednesday, 4/19: The Perfect Cup

Open the bag,
inhale the fragrant leaves
deep and earthy, like fresh loam.

Fill the kettle,
with cold, fresh tap water,
wait for the heat and steam.

A china cup,
a pretty saucer, perhaps.
Or a thick mug, if you please.

The leaves dance,
plump up, unfurl and release,
steeping gentle in stainless steel mesh.

Savor the taste,
a robust feel on the tongue,
the rich, heady flavor of nature.

Thursday, 4/20: Mirror Dear

Who’s the fairest,
mirror dear?
I think the answer’s
all too clear.

Colored gray hair and
problem skin aside,
we both know who’s
witty and funny and wise.

Long shapely nails,
colored bright hues,
pale blue-gray eyes
and all sorts of tattoos.

Everyone needs
imperfections you know
but do we really need to mention those?

A thoughtful mind,
a logical brain,
boring to some,
but intelligence won’t wane.

No need to respond
mirror dear,
I think the answer’s
all too clear.

Friday, 4/21: Connections

There’s a moment in time,
one not often felt,
when you feel a soft rhyme,
that connects with someone else.

A look, a touch, a vibration of air,
a warmth that won’t ever let go,
that incredible knowledge you’re part of a pair,
and only the two of you know.

No matter the troubles,
or how far you may roam,
the safe, cozy bubble
of shared affection is always home.


Thanks for reading…feel free to share your own poems below. And stop back next Sunday for the last week’s worth of poetry!

 

Priorities & Forced Balance

Last week wasn’t nearly as bad as the week before in general, which is kind of odd since work was decidedly difficult. The difference is, I dealt with it much better, and while I didn’t stay caught up all the time, I did prioritize a lot better. It’s amazing how much just setting solid priorities can alleviate so much stress – and allow us to get more done than we might otherwise.

The poetry challenge was especially “challenging” this past week, but I managed to end Saturday caught up for the week (I’m behind a poem again as of right now, but I’ll catch up tonight). Poetry is all about “flow” and ironically, fitting it into my schedule has been exactly that. Looking for the proper flow, so I can slot it into each day at some point.

I think I mentioned that I was trying to use some of my nightly knitting/crochet/TV time to catch some of the overflow, and my body told me very quickly that it was just not going to happen. My eyes went downhill again, my brain refused to work, and pretty much every night sitting there with the computer on my lap, I eventually just gave up and shut it while I finished my hour-long TV show.

Incidentally, we’ve been watching Iron Fist and Wynonna Earp on Netflix. Iron Fist is entertaining, but I highly, highly recommend Wynonna Earp. So, so good!

In any case, that hour is very necessary down-time, and my body & brain were quick to correct me when I tried to use it for work. So…it would appear that time is just as sacrosanct as my writing time. This week, I’ll get the knitting back out while watching TV.

My neck is healing, but very slowly, and I’m kind of to the point where it feels like it just needs gentle stretching and then to build up the muscle around that nerve to protect it from being pinched again. I have to be careful, as it still won’t really “work” at several angles, but I’ve started doing light weight training in my shoulders/arms again. We’ll see how that goes, but hopefully it will be helpful. Stupid neck.

In any case, my writing output increased again last week, and no matter how much this poetry thing stresses me out, I am *loving* what it’s doing as far as just getting me back in the daily writing habit. That right there was worth the cost of the workshop (though I’m obviously learning so much more…).

And for those who have been following along weekly – yes, my taxes are done and will be in the mail on April 18th. I’m not efiling because I owe the feds money, and they can just wait for my check to get there, thank you very much. This coming Friday night, I’m adding some dedicated bookkeeping time to my weekly business hours.

I’ve been thinking lately of pulling a couple of shelved drafts out and reworking them for publication. The basic plot is sound enough, but they need revision/additions to work. I do believe that might be something to work on after poetry month is over. I’m excited at the prospect, and I hate revising with a passion. So there’s gotta be something there, right? We’ll see.

Serial story chapter coming Friday, and another week’s worth of poems Saturday. Stay tuned!

Poem-A-Day Challenge: Week 1 Poems

If you’ve read Monday’s post, you know that it’s National Poetry Month, and Carol and I decided on a whim (okay, she dared me) to do a Poem-a-Day challenge for the month of April. I signed up for a workshop here in town (I’m doing it online though, because time & people), and while I work to daily prompts (mostly), she’s decided to explore different poetry forms daily. If you click on her name, you’ll get to her blog, and she will be posting her weekly poems on Saturdays as well.

So, these Saturday posts will be a bit longer than normal, because they’ll contain an entire week’s worth of poetry – good, bad or ugly. Much like my serial stories, these are posted in draft form, though since I’m handwriting a lot of them and typing them back in, they’re getting at least minimal editing (hooray!).

Without further ado, I give you this week’s poems. Want to share some of yours? Feel free to paste or link to them in the comments!


Saturday 4/1: The Well

The well was dry, or so they thought
a bucket dropped in and brought back for naught.
Toss a coin down, wish on a prayer,
perhaps our dark secrets will disappear there.

Years after, the well still stands in a field
holding cursed coins and treasure appeal.
But for all who would visit, a sacrifice made,
another dark secret in the well must be laid.

Sunday 4/2: Mornings

It starts with a buzz
then another
vibration
harbinger of imminent doom.

The ship bell tolls loud
banishes sleep
irritation
summoned for immediate gloom.

Stumble into the kitchen
doggy duties
infusion
tea before leaving this room.

Down to the basement
sun salutation
meditation
illumination begins to bloom.

The shower runs warm
brainfog clearing
realization
today no early tomb.

Monday 4/3: Ode to Bindweed (also posted on the Snake Bites blog for this week’s poetry prompt)

Solemn and quiet the brown earth lays,
newly exposed after winter abed,
waiting patiently for nutrients and UV rays,
to warm the dark soil and summon the dead.

Deep underneath, where no light penetrates,
the tiniest microbes wiggle and churn,
tough twisted roots begin to replicate
preparing for their evil master’s return.

The rake turns the soil, pulls back the top
tiny seeds scattered wide, a last ditch hope.
The rake cuts the roots, but they don’t ever stop
indeed they grow into stronger, deeper rope.

Those arrow-shaped leaves, the bell-shaped flowers
would surely be pretty at some other abode.
In this place the sight is one quite sour
akin to licking the back of a toad.

Tuesday, 4/4: Affairs of the Heart

Maybe we shouldn’t
do this.
It’s going to hurt.
It always does.

We could, I suppose
but then
if bliss fades away
we’ll be alone.

The thing about love
is that
it keeps coming back.
There’s no escape.

But sometimes it comes
for one
and not the other.
Longing is pain.

The heart is fickle
and so
often I don’t know
how to proceed.

Maybe we shouldn’t
but then
again maybe we
should.

Wednesday, 4/5: Voices

It was there in the wasteland
of mid-afternoon that I heard
the voices.

They called to me with whispered
insistent ferver that I could
not ignore.

You want it, we know you do.
You know it’s true, so why don’t you?
They said.

Alas, no coin or paper
graces pocket, wallet or purse
this day.

Apologies, dear voices.
No sweet, or salt, or extra fizz
for us.

Thursday, 4/6: The Secret

Come sit closer
and I’ll tell you a tale
of something lost
something hidden
a curse on a gale.

I wouldn’t divulge
but my last breath is nigh
and someone must
know the secret
of how to survive.

Out back past the tree
where we had our first talk
a wooden box
buried shallow
with gold straps and lock.

Listen — do you hear?
The wind begins to blow.
The restless curse
comes closer now
but you need to know.

The box holds a key
that will open a door
in the basement
behind bookshelves
where rests our folklore.

As soon as I say
this next bit you must run.
Retrieve the key,
unseal the room.
My work here is done.

Hush now, don’t fear, child.
I’ve accepted my fate.
Find the gold tome,
chant the third verse.
Do not hesitate.

The curse, how she howls
like a wolf at the moon.
She comes for me,
go quickly now.
Save yourself from doom.

Friday, 4/7: How Handsome

How handsome you would look
in a puzzle-piece suit.
Jigsaw lines making pinstripes chaotic
and a tie sporting straight-edge simplicity.

When we’d walk down the street,
people would smile and laugh
and say that you’re very well put together.

How handsome you would look
in a crocheted woolen sweater.
Colorful twists of thick fiber knotted into
stylish cables, ribbing, and affectionate warmth.

When we’d walk down the street,
people would snuggle deeper into
their own coats and wish they could feel your softness.

How handsome you would look
in a paperback shirt.
Creamy white paper with black letters dancing
across your chest, and a kilt of colorful covers to match.

When we’d walk down the street,
people would attempt to read your
pages and peek between your covers.


Whew! A good, but challenging week, methinks. Next week, seven more poems. Anyone want to join in? It’s not too late…just start writing!

Poetry & Taxes

April is National Poetry Month, which I normally kind of ignore. It’s not that I don’t like poetry – I like some of it quite well, in fact. Shakespeare’s sonnets were instrumental in shaping romance in my 12 year old heart (that actually sounds sort of scary now, but it’s true), and while I didn’t do well in my poetry classes in college because I had no time to do the assignments with work and other classes (well, and I had issues with some of the analytical methods, but I’ve always been rebellious like that), I still loved reading the poems and have kept those textbooks all these years.

All that said, I’m really not much of a poet. I’ve always been more of a prose kind of girl, and found poetry difficult to write. But considering I like to read poetry, and I think poetry could help me write better prose (whether I can write decent poetry or not), I decided to attend a free Poem-A-Day Challenge kickoff at a local bookstore this past Saturday afternoon. We talked about poetry, heard some poetry, and even wrote some first lines and a poem to start.

By the end, I’d talked myself into paying for the daily writing prompts and online workshop. Which is complete madness, because I have *no time* to work on a poem every day and still work on my prose writing. No time!

Alas, I signed up, so now I have to figure out how to make it so. Which is why I’m missing out on my reading time tonight to write this blog post – I spent my post-writing time finishing the poem I needed to write for Sunday. But I really can’t do that every day this month – that reading time is very important to both my writing and my sleep patterns. So I have to figure out some other time to work on poetry, and not spend too much time dilly-dallying with it.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

In any case, my best buddy Carol who has agreed to write a poem per day with me this month, insists that we can’t just be trusted to write poetry daily – we have to prove it. So we are sending each other our poems every day, and then we’ll both post all the poems from the week on our respective blogs once weekly for the month.

I’ll be posting my weekly collection on Saturdays, so if you want to read what I’m working on this month, by all means, feel free to stop by. It will be…well, interesting, I hope.

In other news, I still have to do my taxes. I always do them at the last minute, because we always break even, so there’s really no point in doing them early. This past weekend, I downloaded all my various sales reports, and Friday night I’ll need to get those entered into my accounting software so I can aggregate the information I need, and then next Sunday will be tax day around here. *sigh* TurboTax makes it easy-ish, but still. Does anyone actually like doing taxes? I think not.

Is there anything remotely poetic about taxes? We just might see…