On the Road Again: A Zombie Tale

It was that moment in the afternoon where the sun wasn't quite beginning its descent but the sky had begun to change colors in preparation. For two patrons at the Silver Whistle it didn't matter. The pair sat at the mahogany bar watching the news with half-hearted interest. They both looked tired and the bartender didn't seem to care that the bar wasn't open for another two hours. He stepped forward and poured amber liquor into the glasses and refilled the remaining of the glass with a dark carbonated beverage. The woman pushed some money forward and the bartender just shook his head pushing it back.

"Thanks sweetie. I can use this."

"We all can." the bartender took the girls smile as payment and the gentleman sitting next to her smirked.

"You always do what you want, huh?" His deep brown eyes danced as he began to read his compatriots’. The woman smirked and shook her head.

"Nah... Not always." She ran a hand over her smoothed down ponytail and pulled the elastic out, letting loose her lengthy brown hair. She ruffled her hair quickly and seemed to try to ease the tension in her body. "Be a dear?" She held her hair to the side and turned so her back was towards her friend. He chuckled, took a swig of his poison and began to rub her shoulders. The bartender chuckled quietly to himself noting the sense of comfort the two had with each other. Her face relaxed momentarily. She let out a deep breath and began to understand why all these years that he had loved getting massages.

"How are things at home?" The gentleman asked quietly as he worked on her shoulders.

"What home?" She frowned and all the frustration returned to her face. She reached over to the bar and grabbed her drink, tilting her head back to down it.

"Shit..."

"Dead. Came home to find Mom, Dad, and Evey turned." Her voice was stilted. She twisted the ring on her left ring finger and looked back to her glass. Too bad it was empty. "Haven’t told Sven yet that I had to ..." Her voice broke and the gentleman’s arms went from her shoulders to her waist, pulling her close. She let out a deep sigh and sniffled, her arms resting over his.

"I'm sorry Julia..." He hugged her tight, as if she was the last real thing left in this existence. "He'll understand."

"I hope so." Julia stiffened as the TV seemed to get louder.

"The mob we've been tracking is moving towards the Taunton area, most notably near the Green. Please remain indoors. I repeat remain indoors, and allow the army to deal with the infestation." Julia started laughing a slow, unsettling guttural laugh. The gentleman with her shook his head and tapped her shoulder as he stood.

"C'mon. I've got weapons stored in your van."

"Who knew all those hours of left for dead would come in handy, Derrick " The girl smirked and stood. She pointed to the bartender. "You need a shotgun?"

"Nah I've got my own gun." He smirked and pulled out a sniper rifle, making preparations to mount it on the window. Julia nodded, clearly impressed with his choice of weapon. She pulled out her cell phone and shot off a message to her uncle, while they made their way to the car. A group of people with boards and nails began to filter into the bar.

"We're going back in there?" Derrick asked and looked over to Julia as he tossed her a loaded double barreled shot gun. Julia raised an eyebrow and looked over her sunglasses. "Right."

"On the road again..." Julia sung quietly to herself as the air grew eerily quiet. Just off in the distance you could hear the shuffling of a mob. "Just can't wait to get on the road again..." She looked down the sight to check and see where they were. Nowhere close, yet.

"Time for another drink?" Derrick smirked and she nodded. A least in all of this... she hadn't lost her sense of humor.

Purgatorio-io-io

The door clicked open to a grey room, awash in the less than pleasant feelings of uncertainty and doubt. The winds were fierce but still unable to move anything around them. Stagnation took hold of everything that entered here and held firmly to them without a care as to why they were there. Seraphina took a deep breath and walked forward into the fog. People wandered to and fro not really making any sort of effort to get anywhere. Others remained in one spot watching an invisible television with all the memories of their life playing before them, twisted by time and the unreliable memory of those long gone from the material. Sera looked down at the file in her hand.

“Illiah Skylark” she said softly pulling the first paper aside to reveal a photo of the girl 20 minutes prior to her untimely death. She was pretty in a kind, gentle, unassuming manner. Hopefully this one would be easy to find. Looking up from her paperwork, the cherub frowned.  Most of the souls before her were fading into the background of the realm. Not everyone that was here was necessarily bad or good. Sera pushed a curl aside and looked about once more before taking a step forward. She walked quickly and quietly through the crowds of people, hunters instincts taking over. It was coming back to her more quickly than she had expected. To tell the truth, it had been 50 years since she had done this. She expected that all that time to make a difference in her abilities but, this… this was good. Maybe she wouldn’t return to the material yet. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. She stopped and looked towards the horizon. A woman, shorter than most, was walking towards her. She glanced down at the picture in the dossier and nodded.

“Illiah?”

“Yes?”

“Hi. My name is Seraphina.”

“Are you hear to bring me to heaven?”

Seraphina shifted uncomfortably. “No… I’m from the soul reassignment bureau. We’re bringing you back to life.” She smiled, hoping that’s all she would want to know right now.

“How long has it been since I died?”

“According to your file, 40 years. “ Sera said sifting through the papers in the file. “Why don’t we head back to the bureau and we’ll begin the process of acclimation to the material and you’ll get to know the persons life you’re stepping into.”

“I’m not being born?” Illiah frowned and sat down on the materializing chair. She looked up towards the newcomer with doubt and fear. She had wanted to go back. The material was a world she could remember fondly. The fear was deep seated from her death. The man that had killed her remained in the forefront of her mind. The material is where he was. 40 years though. Maybe he was dead? She had watched the trial as a ghost, wandering around the court room but he went free. There wasn’t enough evidence to hold him…

It was a cold stereotypical day in the northwest: rainy, cloudy, dark and dismal. The court would assemble in a little over an hour. Illiah paced up and down the streets of in front of Hope Point Court House waiting. ‘I’m dead, I’m dead, they can’t see me. I should get closer. Maybe they’ll have pulled up…’

Illiah ran towards the courthouse just as the frenzy of media coverage got there and began flashing their cameras  at the lawyers and the defendant. She pushed through the crowd easily enough(simply phased through) and saw her husband for the first time in nearly a week. He looked different. She remembered him as caring and, right up to the point where he strangled her. Her hand went to her throat, trying to protect herself from the feeling of suffocation again. The man who had loved her, now looked towards the doors of the court house, failing to hide his satisfaction with the situation. It had been nearly 2 months of trials and deliberations, upon whether or not he was guilty of the strangling death of his beloved wife. He had cried on several occasions in front of the jurors claiming to miss her terribly. Each time he tried, Illiah screamed to no avail. For a brief moment her ghostly wails were strong enough that it sent a chill through the courtroom, causing all assembled to question; for a moment, his sincerity that day. Illiah was sure she was wasting away watching these proceedings. Every day she left the courthouse sure that the next day they would bring in more people to testify against him, yet everyday she was let down by the prosecution’s lack of evidence. It wore away last nerves and today… today she was sure he would be sent to jail or set free.

“All rise” The judge, jury and parties were seated and the jury was sent into deliberations. A little over an hour later, the jurors re-emerged looking solemn. Illiah waited with baited breath for their decision. 

“We the jury find Richard Skylark, innocent on the charges of murder in the first degree.”

            Richard looked at his lawyers and smile, patting one on the back on the way out. He walked past his wife’s ghost, and out the doors into his new found freedom. Illiah would never forget the look on his face. Never.

            Sera looked at Illiah who seemed to be in a trance like state, similar to all the other souls surrounding them at the moment. ‘What is it like group remembrance time or something?’ she thought gathering the strength to try to pull Illiah out of it. Her face had contorted into an angry snarl, and her entire body had tensed up in the chair. Sera was actually scared of pulling her from whatever memory it was that was causing her to be this upset.

            “Umm….. Illiah?” No response. “Illiah…Illiah!” She raised her voice to a sterner tone, taking the girls hand in hers and squeezing.

            “What?” Illiah blinked a few times and shuddered remembering where she was again. It was always hard coming back from the dream like state of remembrance.  She looked about frantically, half expecting to see her husband standing in front of her.


             "I'll kill him."

Letter #1

Dear You,

Sometimes, I wonder where we’re going to be in 10 years. I’ve seen how months can change a relationship. It takes so little to shatter a preciously built world. I hope that this will not be another case of that for either of us. I don’t think that is the case, but… you can’t say never to anything, I’ve found.

It’s kind of funny that I sit and think about the 10 year future, given that for all the wondering… I can’t see anything more than use snuggled up talking quietly at the end of a long day. We’re still there, giggling at the other’s awful jokes and telling the other that it’s really not funny, trying to hide the smile still.  Hands intertwined, watching the Christmas trees’ lights change colors slowly, the room lighting up in a myriad of hues.

The scene is one I hope for. I hope that in so much time, I will still love you the same ways, but in so many new ones too.

With all my love,

Me

A Time for...

I opened a button on the top of my starched white button down. Sitting on the steps of the funeral home, I starred silently past the floods of people wafting in and out. I had no idea who they were but it didn't matter. They didn't know me, either. I pulled a long, thin, black cigarette from a pack in my purse and lit it, inhaling deeply. The sugary sweet puffs of smoke passed over my lips and seemed a welcome, minor relief in the sea of death and condolences that was washing over my reality. I cracked my neck and finished the cigarette, putting it out and waiting until it was cool enough to pocket. Non-smoking areas tend to frown on cigarette butts on the lawn. I stood there for a moment, starring at the door.

I could go back in. I guess that's what I should do. Go in and tell her 'I'm sorry' for the 700^th time of the night. Hug her, tell her everything is going to be ok. It won't. It never is, though it never was either.

I could turn around and walk to the car. What would I do? Drive. Drive all the way back to work, back to an empty house, or back to somewhere I haven't discovered yet, but will feel familiar. I could go to the ocean. But then again... nah. Too cold.

I could stand here. Not doing anything but greeting people with sad smiles and empty welcomes. I wouldn't have to go back in until they began to close out for the night...

I sigh instead of any of the alternatives. I'm so tired. I pull another cigarette out, lighting it. The habit hasn't been easy on my lungs but damned if it didn't give me a minute or two to breathe during situations like this. I smile, uneasy at a couple people leaving the funeral home. One older woman stops and stares. I stare right back. Neither of us are sure what to say, but we both know that somehow it wouldn't be enough anyway.

“Were you close to her?”

“No. I'm here for her mother.”

“Ah... Thank you.”

“It's not enough, but we all do what we can.” I say softly. My words trailing off as I stare at the ground. I can't hold her gaze any longer. Her eyes speak to the sadness of loss too easily. I took a deep breath and a drag of the cigarette, hoping the ensuing silence would send her on her way. I look back up and she's smiling softly,. Her own eyes cast downward. She's fragile. That much you can tell. Brown hair with silver streaks, beginning to creep through. The black she's clad in seems to engulf her, much like the rest of us.

“You're young. I hope you never have to do this.” She says, her voice is soft but knowing. I nod, taking another drag from the cigarette. I walk forward, unannounced and hug her, arms wrapping around her shoulders. I don't know her, but she needs a hug. That much you can tell. Her shoulders shake breifly and she hugs me back, albeit a bit weakly. I smile and take a deep breath as I step back, hoping it id something. She smiles, albeit a bit weakly. Her husband takes her hand, smiles politely to me and she crumbles into a puddle of tears. I frown. This would be the pattern if I remain out here...

Time to go back inside...  

Astor's Grace - Old WiP

               There was something about the look in her eyes. It was the sort of look that inspired confidence in her followers, her army. She was the sort of woman that men fought wars for. While she was painfully aware of her effect on men and women like, it wasn’t for her ravishing looks, as she didn’t possess those. She was fairly plain in her appearance. Long brown, straight hair; brown, never ending eyes; and a slightly crooked smile. She stood with a complex mix of feigned grace and awkward self consciousness, as she addressed her men. Somehow, when she spoke, she transformed. Her beauty shone through, like the way that the sun reaches the smallest of plants in the early hours of the morning. Her intellect was rapier sharp and just as quick, throwing in a crass joke or two to elicit a laugh from the lower ranks, and connect her to ‘the common man’; while eloquently tying in beautifully predetermined metaphors and imagery to inspire the utmost confidence from her ranks. Her name was Elena, and she was our queen. The one we would march for, the one we would die for, and the woman that I called my wife.

                She stepped back from the podium, sounds of applause still ringing in our ears. Elena walked off the stage with the power and grace of a well spoken official, but behind the thick red curtains of the stage, she let the sort of façade melt away. She reached out and hugged me tight, looking deep into my eyes for approval.

                “How did I do?” I had to chuckle as it was evident that the speech was a rousing success, yet she still asked. Honestly, I was the last person she needed approval from. She had a legion of young men willing to die for her. Me? I was an advisor to the tactics committee, and very rarely saw any action on the front lines.  I smiled and stroked her cheek.

                “You did good, kiddo.” I said, half sincere, half jokingly. She stuck her tongue out at me and laughed.

                “One of these days, you’ll stop calling me that.” She said, pushing herself against me. I smiled, a small private smile and pulled her closer. A cough sounded from behind me, and Elena looked past me rolling her eyes.

                “I’ve got to be the only ruler in all of fucking Astor that has to stop public displays of affection with my husband.” She grumbled and pushed away from me. I turned. It was Cynthia, her etiquette coach and the face of public relations for the kingdom. She was a sterner looking woman, with thinly rimmed glasses, and her hair pulled out of her face. Cynthia looked down at the stack of papers and walked forward, being joined by one of the military advisors on the way. I saluted the gentleman, recognizing him to be one of the generals of Elena’s airship fleet. General Dante Valk, leader of the 1^st airborne squadron, the finest pilots in all of Astor. Elena smiled and reached out her hand to the general who bowed and kissed her hand.

                “All allegiance to her majesty, may her grace protect.” Elena despised the greeting but it had a certain degree of formality to it that her station demanded. The general righted himself and Cynthia smiled.

                “Your Grace…”

                “Elena.” Elena said curtly looking at Cynthia a little harshly. The formalities seemed to be an unnecessary addition to her position and most unwelcome. I hid a small smile as I stood there beside her.

                “Your Grace, the legion facing Eltheener’s western border have begun the march towards their capital. Your general has informed me that an aerial assault, weakening their biodome would be the next step. It would weaken their citizens and allow for easier passage for our troops.” The general stood silently and I shook my head.

                “As much as an assault on the city’s dome directly, would aid greatly, it would also weaken our chances at any sort of eventual diplomatic negotiations.” A voice came from the shadows and a gentleman with long black hair came forward. His name was Liam and he was one of Elena’s diplomatic council members. Elena smiled seeing him joining the small circle. The pair had been close, since the two grew up together in the palace, the children of noble blood. The General frowned and waved his hand dismissively at Liam.

                “Diplomacy with the Eltheenians? Highly doubtful. Their leader is more hot headed than our own and half as wise. Do you really think he’ll have anything to do with us after we’ve barged through his countryside, and razed two of his cities to the ground?” The laughter in the General Valk’s voice was clear though he still tried, in vain, to hide it. Elena frowned and Cynthia’s face paled. Clearly she hadn’t intended for him to do any of the talking, though Liam was an unaccounted for variable in her original plan. Liam smirked and shook his head.

                “You seem to think that diplomacy has only one face, General Valk. For your uneducated, war like hind brain, I’ll speak in small words.” A small, but powerfully poignant smile passed over his features infecting Liam’s eyes. “Interrogation can come across as diplomacy as long as you don’t break too many bones. Keep insulting Elena, our queen, and I may show you that darker side, personally.” The way Liam looked at Valk made him and myself, uncomfortable. The sheer brilliance of Liam’s blue eyes and venomous personality seemed to culminate in his stare. He had always been protective of Elena, taking on his current position to remain close to her. I once theorized that the two were lovers, while I was away, though the thought seemed to fade as quickly as it sprung up. In all of Astor, he was the only man that made me feel uneasy; uneasy about my position in his eyes and uneasy about leaving my wife alone with him.  Elena held back a small chuckle, and covered her mouth, coughing slightly.

                “Ok. Enough. We should head back to the palace before anymore discussion takes place. Besides, I’m sure your families would like to see you tonight. I’ve had you all away for weeks, trying the bring morale higher.” Elena smiled and the group silently agreed, walking off to the airship. I waited for a moment before following knowing there would be reporters with their vid droids crawling all over the exit area. For all that it was public knowledge that I was her husband, it was considered to be a sign of weakness to have me so close to her at all times. While none of her trusted companions believed this to be such a thing, the general public seemed to have adopted that unsavory opinion. It hurt me to a degree to have to be apart from her on a personal level, but on an official level it made sense. She needed a strong positive image during the war.

Brian Pt. 2

“Oh hush...” Her finger came to my lips and she continued. “Shhhhhh... little boys shouldn't scream like that... shhhhhhh.” I stopped. My throat was raw with searing pain. “Now isn't that better?” Her hand moved from my mouth to caress my cheek. I forced myself from her hand and stood, finally able to break away from what was holding me. She stood. The woman was in fact a woman and stood about five foot ten. She was taller than I am, but thinner. Her bone structure was fierce, and somehow reminded me of a lioness. A man stood next to her, though I hadn't seen him before now. He had similar features, and I could only guess was related to her in some way. I looked behind them, peeling my eyes off of my captors momentarily. The windows...

“Ah, I see you notice where we are. Good.” My face paled as she spoke. I stood in the center of the room I had been fighting to escape the consequences of for months. I feel to my knees, half in disbelief, the rest because, suddenly my body couldn't handle it's own weight. My arms fell to my sides and my head lolled back. I felt myself start sobbing. I couldn't stop the flow of tears. The eyes had seen too much and needed to wash themselves of it all.

“Stop crying, little boy...” Her voice started up again after a moment of watching me sob. I turned my head and the woman came into focus. The man stepped forward, stopping in front of me. He looked down a sort of sad smile on his face. I looked into his eyes, looking for some sort of hope. Instead of receiving that sort of grace, I got slapped. I closed my eyes and bit my bottom lip, taking a sharp inward breath. There was a soft 'hrmph' from behind him. I reopened my eyes to see his peering down into mine. They were gold. It was an odd color... but beautiful none the less. My face was grabbed and I saw instead of gold eyes, a pair of steely blue eyes met mine. They were hers. She pulled me to standing, seeming to carry the weight of my entire body by my chin. I whimpered. The pain was great, but I could only imagine-

“He thinks too much... Micheal, grab him and tie him to the post.” Gabriella shook her hand out, the punch having cramped it up. She cracked her neck and looked behind her. Adam was being tied to a post but Brian was stuck in the mirror across from him. Reflective surface, visible psychosis. Alter ego, demon, whatever you wanted to call it. Gabriella never called them demons. They were another side of the beast that fights for control. Brian sat quietly one eye brow arched, watching Micheal and Gabriella with growing interest.

“You're not going to do this are you?” Gabriella answered simply by pointing a gun at Adam's head and blinked at the reflection of madness. “Ah. I see.” His voice was chilly and somewhat calculating.

“My interest is not with you. I need to shut you up however. This poor little boy you're fighting over doesn't need the torment.” Her voice almost purred, as she dragged the gun's barrel down the unconscious man's neck. Brian frowned and then turned from them for a moment. Micheal frowned, glancing between his sister and the mirror. Gabriella's face remained fixed on the mirror.

“Fine. You have another year.” Brian's gaze fell over his shoulder not looking directly at either of them. “After that I will be back. He'll need to forget all of today.”

“A concussion will do the trick.” Gabriella frowned and raised a brow checking the mirror. “If you show any signs of deceit...”

“You wouldn't know they were coming” His words were quick and spiteful. A small smile formed at the corners of Gabby's mouth and she nodded, cocking the pistol and firing three shots into the mirror. Micheal blinked and began to untie Adam.

“We've got some work ahead of us...”

“Good morning, sunshine...” I woke to a bright light streaming through the hospital windows. A familiar face looked at me, though, I couldn't place her. I smiled at the nickname, and winced as the pain in my body rushed back to me all at once. “I'll call the nurse.”

I forced a half heart-ed smile and I closed my eyes again. The pain was incredible. The confusion was worse... Was there someone else in the room? I opened my eyes again, but it was much too bright to tell. Ah well. Maybe another friend...

Brian

I have seen the edges of madness and escaped with my life.

I wrote this sentence over and over, trying to reassure myself of it's truth. Sitting in a diner surrounded by those untouched by anything paranormal seemed almost... freaky. I couldn't shake those eyes. I starred ahead for what seemed like hours, before the waitress came over to refill my empty coffee mug. I shook my head and smiled, thanking her silently.

I have seen the edges of madness and escaped with my life.

Those creatures. They had no rhyme or reason to be there. Why Pennsylvania? Why that building? Why... me? As I closed my eyes, those four stained glass windows appeared in the blackness of my eyelids. Two with a chain and bell... two with a mirror. The vivid blue seemingly trying to create the illusion of clear sky... Those images with the red, red handles and banisters... I shuddered and looked down at my napkin. I had begun to draw them while I hadn't noticed.

“Breathe deep, Brian...” I found myself saying softly. Stop it! That's the name 'they' gave you. Your name is Adam...

“Are you ok, hun?” The waitress, touched my shoulder and caused me to force myself back into reality. I nodded, got up and handed her a twenty. The bill probably only came to five dollars but I needed to get out of there quickly and that was all I had on me. She said something I couldn't make out as I was leaving, probably to another table. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered now was myself. I am normal. I was touched. Madness surrounded me. I survived. I am... Normal.

Dreams became my salvation and personal hell. It had been weeks since that bloody day. I returned home to a mundane existence. I worked in a small shop that had allowed the vacation in the first place. I was starting to hate them for granting me that vacation. I shouldn't blame them for any of it, but somewhere within me, I did. For any other writer a trip that left them scarred would have been amazing material. For me, it was quite the opposite. I hadn't been able to write anything but nonsensical ramblings, and worse they always started with that bastard sentence I couldn't rid myself of.

I have seen the edges of madness and escaped with my life.

'Brian' had become a constant in my life. I would see him walking around the shop while I sat behind the counter. He would run a hand over a female customers face. He would rearrange nonexistent items, furiously. It was always my fault they were out of order. He wouldn't hesitate in telling me later, when we were home. Today was no different. I dreaded going home to the silence. He was awful... Perhaps I had escaped with my life, but certainly not my sanity. Or maybe I was sane. I couldn’t tell anymore. I once had a firm grip on reality. Things seemed to be... fuzzier lately. I sat quietly in my armchair starring at a TV that hadn't been turned on in a month. His face showed up within it.

“Hello Adam.”

“Brian.”

“What did you do wrong today, Adam?”

“Nothing.”

The conversation always began like this. I stood to get away, but he followed me. He crawled out of the TV and walked along the walls to the stove. His hand came down hard on the back of my neck and the world went black.

I awoke on the kitchen floor, blurry vision showing me that underneath the stove needed to be cleaned. I rolled from my side to my back, closing my eyes again. They snapped open within a second and I looked frantically around me, unable to move from my position on the floor. I wasn't in my kitchen. I knew exactly where I was... and my heartbeat raced. They were here.

“Good morning. Brian told us you'd been misbehaving...” Her voice was sing-songy. I screamed. It was a scream no one would hear... Would it be my last?

To be continued...

To Write From the World of Dreams

“Dreams are a succession of images, sounds or emotions that pass through the mind during sleep. The content and purpose of dreams are not fully understood, though they have been a topic of speculation and interest throughout recorded history”~Wikipedia

The idea of writing from your dreams is not a new one. In fact there are several books on the topic, prescribed through many creative writing courses all over the world in modern curriculum. With that being said, I'd like to take this Monday's blog post to discuss just that.

The Imagination Unbound

One of the lovely things about dreams and the lucid state, is that in parts, things flow together. They cause one to almost feel as though there is nothing more natural than a potted petunia floating through the dangerous purple sky. It doesn't matter that it simply doesn't make sense, but allows the mind to meander in and out of the lovely absurdism that is created when our minds relax. The simplistic Dali-esque version of our brains actually speaks volumes as to who we are as a person. No. Stop right there. I'm not telling you that Freud was right and that you have an inherent crush on your mother/father and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm more getting at the fact that, the things you dream about are relevant to your life. These images can often be helpful reminders to the things that populate the waking world as well as our dreams.

Let your imagination that populates your dreams, flood into your writing, whether it be a journal (dream journal, for example) or your works of fiction. Especially your works of fiction. Imagination is your greatest tool. Use it!

Dream a Little...Awful Dream

Like dreams, sometimes there are bad stories. Bad dreams leave us rocked with an uneasy, fearful, and sometimes dumbfounded. These however can be launching points for some great stories. Why not take that moment in your dream where everything went wrong and use it as a pivotal moment in your next short? Or take the moment where things came to a sudden head and then you were left sitting on the side of the street, eating ice cream as a moment of peace within your storyline?

All of the oddities and awful things that happen in dreams can be used. Bad stories, give us things we can use, even if we have to trash the world around it. Why not use our awful, very bad, no-good dreams in a similar fashion?

Tell Your Inner Critic to 'Put a Sock In It'

Another of the great aspects about dreams and the dreaming, is that very rarely can you stop the dream. You can't just grab the reins and suddenly you're in control. Sometimes you can, but not often.

The lesson here is that sometimes, you just need to get that voice of doubt and your inner critic out of the way. These are the voices that keep you from achieving the impossible within the confines of your story. Take the story and just write. In the spirit of many writing competitions, like NaNoWriMo; just write. Ignore that inner voice. Seriously. What does that guy know anyway? You want a wombat themed race of semi-sentient individuals to overthrow the piranha pirates of Bangladesh? Do it. Flying naked mole rats. Why not? A lazy ferret to motivate your main? Ok well for some of us, that's a little closer to truth than fiction.

So write. Write all you can. Use your dreams and your imagination to guide you. Step back from the rules set forth by grammar and good taste, and begin! Those rules will be there when you're done. You can always go back through after and begin the refining process (psst it's called editing for a reason). Don't take all of your wackiness out of it. Be your crazy, dream possessed self and write what ever comes your way.

~Writing Task for the Week~
Are you an avid dreamer? Do you only dream once in a blue moon? Either way, keep a notepad next to your bed, and anything you find intriguing about your dreams, jot it down as soon as you wake up. Story seeds come from interesting places, and your dreams will often be the source for more than a few, whether you realize it or not.

Cheers,
Jessi

A Goggles and Lace Writing Challenge: The First Snowfall

I walked quietly through the paths of the campus, looming grey clouds, gently reminding me to get inside before some sort delinquent weather started dropping from them. It was cold enough for snow but still. It was early November in New England, it could go either way. Heavy freezing rain, or a light snow to usher in colder and much harsher weather ahead. I took a deep breath and let the cold, moist air fill my lungs. It seemed a welcome relief in the dryness of late fall...

I pulled my coat tighter around me and looked over the cold grey of the campus that matched the clouds perfectly. For all the damp coolness and the warmth of the dorms that lay just 50 feet away, I wanted to stay outside. I took a seat on the park style bench outside the big rock in the freshman quad and pulled a pack of cloves from my pocket. It'd been a long semester already and finals had yet to come. Hell, it wasn't even thanksgiving yet. The funny part about all of it was, the campus hadn't seen it this quiet since the first day of freshman move in. There wasn't a soul outside in the impending storm.

I took a clove out and lit it frowning as the smoke rings blew away in the breeze. The cinnamon spice taste of the cigarette reminded me of the holidays in the best and worst of ways. It was ironic that these were the memories triggered by the snow. I let the smile slip from my lips as someone sat down next to me. I looked up and held my pack of cloves out to the new occupant on the bench. My room mate took one and lit it, looking out at the path leading towards the campus center.

“Ready for the holidays?” Her thin hands held the cigarette delicately, watching my movements, calculating what I would say before I said it. I smiled softly, but sadly. “I see.” She nodded and took a drag, trying to ignore the fact that I'll be staying on campus again this year. She always makes the offer to bring me to her house, but I always decline. I love her family, I do. They're amazing but...

“I don't know...” I hear myself saying and watching as the first snowflake lands on my black naval coat. I take a drag of my own cigarette and relax as the smoke passes over my lips.

“You should.”

“I should what?”

“Know. It's been three years. Come home and enjoy the days with some family.” She's more insistent this year than in the past. She should be by all rights. I'd turned her down for three years running at this point.

“We'll see.” The silence in the air was dampened by the softly falling snow. She looked up at the sky and let the snowflakes fall on her ebony eyelashes. A smile passed over her lips and she stood in front of me, offering me a bony white hand.

“Let's go. I need to pack.” I looked her over for a moment and stood, finishing my cigarette. I took her hand.

“Yeah..." I knew that mischievous smile on her lips. I was either in trouble or about to have my things packed for me. The snow, however menacing it was to drivers, is what made me remember that one happy thing. Every time it snows, I have to smile. The crisp air, the faint memory of cinnamon and that smile... Something I'll never forget.

Camp NaNo's Official Kick-off !!!!

After a long awaited and highly anticipated unveiling of the summer edition, Camp NaNoWriMo is here!!

Camp NaNo Official Site

Howdy, camper!

June 17, 2011

I hope you’ve had a chance to unload your pack, slip off your boots, and dip your toes in the lake of inspiration we’re overlooking here at Camp NaNoWriMo.

If not, there’s plenty of time to explore before we get down to writing our novels. The first camp session—and your novel—will begin at 12:00:01 AM on July 1. (And if you need a little more time, or you have multiple plots in mind, don't worry. We'll be open in August for a second novel-writing session with even more site features!)

That’s right. Two opportunities for high-velocity noveling... in a tent!

A few reminders as you enter the camp site:

1. Read the Help section (in the upper right hand corner of the site). It is full of tips on how the site works and information about where everything is.

2. This is Camp beta, and new sites always come with a little bugginess (and we’re not talking about mosquitoes here...). Just head over to the Tech Help and Bug Reports forum over on NaNoWriMo.org (Camp doesn't have its own forums) where there’s a designated Camp thread. See what others have already posted there, or chime in if you have an unreported bug.

3. Follow our new @CampNaNoWriMo Twitter feed for updates and more!

4. Have fun! And don’t forget to use plenty of sun screen while you’re tromping around camp.

Giddyup!

Lindsey

So You hear that? That's the sound of the campfires starting up and the stories being told. Starting July 1st, I'll be on the trail, and I hope you'll join me on this very exciting summer edition. If you don't want to join in july, why not august? So that's right. Three months this year, you can write your novels! Come join in the fun!

~Jessi

Skeletons in the Closet

There are phrases that cause me to roll my eyes, and others that give me pause. The phrase 'skeletons in the closet' will never have the same, innocent connotations again. I sit writing this from the diner down the street of my new home. Why you ask? Just sit tight. I'm more than willing to tell you.

I signed the last of my paperwork sitting in the dining room of my new-old Victorian. The home was 75 years old, and looked like nothing had been changed in it since. The wallpaper had aged, light rose color with floral patterns adorned the room. There was a certain charm to the old place, though the wallpaper and the rugs would need to be torn out, I thought silently assessing the room while the lawyer looked over the paperwork.

"Ok. Looks like it's all set. I don't understand why the hell you wanted this place." James furrowed his brow and tapped the paperwork back into a nice neat little pile. I just laughed and stood, looking out the window in the backyard.

"The views are amazing. Besides, who wouldn't want this place?" I mused and tried to open the window. It was stuck due to humidity and I rubbed the back of my head, making a mental note to change out the windows. I heard a soft chuckle from the table, watching my failed attempt.

"Someone with a bad shoulder." James mused and tucked the papers into his briefcase.

"And I'm the egotistical one? You don't have to make this all about you..." I joked and rubbed my shoulder, looking over to my lawyer, watching him laugh a little while he straightened his tie.

"I'm sure you'll love it here, you crazy bastard." James managed and looked towards the front door. He'd been creeped out by the place since I brought him here months ago. I kept telling him about my vision and my plans for the writing nooks, and the wine cellar and all of it. He didn't see it. Any of it. I turned away from my window and gestured him towards the door.

"I will. Tonight's the first night here. The reno crews come in tomorrow first thing in the morning." I smiled and opened the front door, taking in the fresh air of spring that washed through. James nodded and looked at his watch.

"Indeed. Want to grab a drink tomorrow? The wife wants me home early tonight, but she's out with her sister tomorrow."

"Yeah sounds good." I shook his hand and the lawyer left for the night. I went back inside, ordered a pizza and went to bed for the night.

The next morning came with no indication that things were about to take a gruesome turn. The crew arrived and I laid out the plans on the table, the guys placing their equipment down on the covered hardwood floors. The inspectors were going through making sure all the closets and what not were empty so they could begin. I'd be handing over my keys and not seeing the place again for a month while they worked.

"What the fuck?!" I heard resound from the basement. The crew chief frowned and led me downstairs to see what the commotion was about.

"Is this some sort of joke?!" The older Hispanic man looked at me like I'd killed his only dog. He stood back, still keeping his gaze on me and the chief and I stepped forward. I gasped. Inside of a concealed closet sat the skeleton of someone, but definitely a person. I reached for the cell phone in my pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

So here I sit. Writing this all down, partially for my own memory and the other part for James, when he shows up to guide me through my legal council against the sellers. I was sure this wouldn't be the end of this story.

A Time for Silence

Why is that through all the social networking, all we can think about is relationships?
Sometime, just sometime, I'd love to see someone proclaim
“I broke up and I'm OK with being single!”
But wait, that too is about relationships
My social chatter is mostly noise confused and garbled
trying to push past the inanity of life
while failing miserably in my humble attempts
I 'like' peoples statuses and leave snarky remarks
I see people that I know will never, ever be good together
go through the ups and downs
and they expect me to go along for the ride.
This coaster only has room for two,
And
I'm not you so please step inside with your significant other
There are times when I cry for you
There are times when I laugh at your mistakes
I say “I've told you it'd never work”
and you threaten to strangle me every time
The truth is
I'm tired of seeing you all hurt
I'm tired of picking up pieces
the pieces with which you'll make the same mistakes
again
and again
and again.
I'm tired of being right
I'm tired of being wrong with my personal life
I'm just... tired
I want to be happy.
I want you to be happy to.
But for once, can't we just be happy
by ourselves?
No.
Because then we'd have no need for facespace and all the rest
We need others.
And we need to be wrong.
But I'm sorry I'm not 'like'-ing that new relationship status.
Call me callous, call me cruel
but when I pick up the pieces again
I'll try really hard not to say
“I told you so”

On love, infatuation, and lust

It's funny that the longer I'm single or even just dating, the more I tend to wax poetic about love, lust and the feelings of twitter-pation (no it's not a word, but yes I'm using it anyway). Recently I ran into someone that made my heart skip. I can't tell you how long it's been since that happened. This realization that I'm still alive in the romantic sense, kind of made me happier than anything else in the world could have. And then there's the crushing reality of the potential relationship. There's the fear. There's the anxiety. There's the potential to be hurt. Again. Most of all it's probably best summarized in this quote by Neil Gaiman.

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love."
— Neil Gaiman (The Kindly Ones)

I don't hate it. I just severely dislike it's unpleasant effects on my thought process. Like many, I tend towards stupidity in that I can't stop thinking about the other person I'm with. I don't even have to be with them constantly for it to happen. Heck the more I'm apart, I wonder what they're doing, hoping that they're having the best day possible, but knowing that something minor has gone wrong somewhere. I can't help but smile thinking I'll hear about it and try to fix it.

But gods be damned, when they let go, or you let go, and things begin to slip through the cracks... love is one of the most painful experiences. My heart breaks when I heard those words, or I had to say them.I cried for days when I realized I couldn't stop the inevitable. There's something about being faced with an oncoming train that makes me crumble in front of it.

So here I sit, after midnight, typing away at the things that have earned my ire. Are the relationships worth it? Yes. All the pain in the world is worth hearing someone sigh genuinely, and say "I love you". And for that... I'll eternally be a fool.

Namaste,
Jessi

Thoughts on the idea of 'Quitting the Day Job'

Sitting quietly at my computer desk, sequestered upstairs on the third floor, still at my parents house, I'm reading a fellow bloggers', somewhat smiling, religion-filled, post (I'd say rant but in general she's too happy to rant, always picking and choosing her words that will have the least negative impact on her audience) where she's ultimately decided to quit her teaching job and live off her husbands income and the 'bonus' income of her newly minted contract with XYZ Publishing. And though her writing is simple and sweet, I can't help but snarl at her post and want to reach through my computer to hers and shake her violently, growling "What the hell is wrong with you?!" over and over again until she realizes just how lucky she is.

I want that contract. She can keep her husband, 2 year old son and hell, even the day job that I wish I could quit. I'm envious, and while I don't think religion would look highly on it, hell, that's where I am. I work, and work, and work, some more waiting for that magical day when all of my problems will be solved by writing.

But I unlike some of my fellow aspiring authors, won't ever quit my day job. It's awful, of that there is no doubt. I'm fairly convinced that by 26, I'll have my first few grey hairs, and I'll be able to follow through with my threat of billing Wal*Mart for my salon costs. My direct supervisor thinks it's funny. I think it's a real issue.

The truth is though, that even if I'm working elsewhere by the time I get my magical 'fix-it-all' contract (which it won't), I won't quit. I can't. There's a piece of me that thinks I should be working more than one job while writing. That same piece of me, also doesn't seem to think that time away with friends is important. So I routinely kick that piece between the eyes, to keep it down, like a good little ho. It keeps me sane, but still the bruised figment drives me to work like a crazy person. I have volumes of work that have never been seen. Why?

Fear. That is where this particular woman and I split. She doesn't have fear, because she trusts in the big invisible man in the sky. She lives a biblical life, for which I'm sure they've saved her the very best, white chair to do all of her afterlife writing in. Me? I'm probably going elsewhere in the afterlife, to slave away as some poor souls, decrepit muse. I feel bad for the poor slob already.

But I digress. My issues with the bloggers' pseudo whining and amazing faith in the unknown aside, fear; and all it's lovely pitfalls, is what stands between us. She's overcome it. I have not. And ultimately I am the only one to blame for that. But hold the phone if you think I'm going down the path of the whiny, empathetic sap that sits at home and writes blog posts with nothing greater than the tears of my readers to fuel me. Hell, I hope you don't ever cry at anything I write. I know this probably won't be the case, but even if you do, I promise I won't collect your tears.

Quite to the opposite, all it does is make me want to work harder. I've never been the kind of person to just let life happen. And far too often, that's what happens. Recently there's been someone in my life, recommending the teachings of Zen and how my life would be improved if I followed them. I had to half choke back a laugh, thinking 'I'm really not very good a my own faith most of the time, you want me to add daily meditations and the belief that we live one moment at a time to that? Good luck'.It seems to be doing wonders for him, but honestly, I'll stay angry and cynical, thanks. It fuels my need to be better. My drive to push past all of this and finally say "I'm published".

I'm waiting quite impatiently for a decision on a submission I sent out about a month back. One month down. Two to go. It's not about the money that the piece would provide (because flash fiction submissions never pay well, allow me to reassure you) but because I want to be able to hold out the book and open it to my page and say "Ha! Someone thought I was worth publishing!".

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter who made it in the industry. I'm envious of them. There's just something so smug about the post that made me angry. I'm happy for her, truly. But honestly. Don't take the writing world for granted. It's a cruel mistress. One that could replace a God abiding good woman with someone like me, who goes to church once in a while, and in general wouldn't make much of an angel. I'd use the halo as a Frisbee, starting up heavens very own ultimate Frisbee league. I'm a strong woman, who says fuck way too much, used to smoke, drinks with friends, and raises a soliciting eyebrow to most religious folks, wondering how they won't ask all the wrong questions to get to where they are.

Religion and writing muses are odd bunk mates in my head.

So good luck to all of you that think that writing will be a magic fix all but, thanks; I'll stay over here in reality, where I'll work just as hard if not harder to keep myself and myself afloat. I'll write until my fingers bleed and work until my feet are ready to give out. And I won't regret a moment of it.

When Magick returned to the world... Pt 2

It had spoken to her. But why? Samantha was pulled back from her contemplative trance in the mission control center outside of the capital. She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the tablet in front of her, going over the latest on the dragon incursion. There was too much to try to process at the moment. The dragons were capable of telepathic communication, so why hadn't they tried to talk to humans at the start? Sam sighed and leaned back in her chair, letting her head flop over the top and stare upside down at the people and goings on behind her. People wandered to and fro talking quietly amongst themselves. Sine the dragons had come to Washington, the whole city was on red alert. Everyone was beyond tense, with the exception of Sam. She was far too lost in her own thoughts to let everyone else intrude.

“Samantha Marks?” A dark haired gentleman with golden green eyes starred at her unscrupulously as she sat starring off into the distance.

“Yeah? That'd be me.” She said losing her eyes, and sitting up to face him in a less ridiculous position. “What can I do for you?” the blood rushed from her head as she spoke and she shook it, exasperating the feeling of disorientation.

“You can start by briefing me on the mutations and the dragons...” He said tilting his head as he watched her carefully. Her face was bright red and she looked a little high honestly. Sam motioned to the chair across from her and ran her fingers across the screen, pulling up a few articles and placing it in front of the gentleman.

“There you go. That's all we know.” A smirk played on her lips, watching his reaction to the news feeds and articles. He rolled his eyes, clearly not impressed with her sarcasm. “I don't know what you're looking for me to tell you. The stories keep rolling in and we're all as lost as the next person. I'm just doing my best to try to hold off the big guns on the creatures.” Sam's tone dropped to a more serious one and she pulled up a draft of a letter she was working on with some colleagues to send out.

“Why would Washington declare an assault on a so far benign enemy?” The gents tone was mocking and Sam let the smirk return to her face.

“To calm the masses. Magic isn't real, it's just that giant lizards have resurfaced after thousands of years and the mutations are the 'natural course of human evolution'. Last I checked guns didn't fix anything but they're certainly trying.”

“We don't know that it's magic yet.”

“Ah the scientific approach is your crutch, is it? I want to hear your explanation then.” Sam leaned forward on to the table, resting her head on her hands. She couldn't help the condescending look, though at this point she wasn't even trying to hide it.

“Adorable. Why did they suggest you anyway?”

“Because I'm a reputable source that's had contact with a dragon.”

“Right. My name is Matthew Blakhorn, by the by.” Sam nodded and failed to hide the almost impressed look. Mr. Blakhorn had long led a team that had believed the dinosaurs could have survived longer than the preconceived periods, lending to the tales of dragons in the cultural tales of many nations. He'd actually been onto something a couple years back and then his funding was cut and there went his lead. Sam didn't hold much respect for many with crackpot theories but this was actually kind of interesting to follow.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Blakhorn.” Sam stood and offered her hand. Blakhorn stood and shook it.

“So... We have some work to do.”

“Yeah. So do all these people.”

“We're going after that dragon. And you're coming with me.”

“Oh lovely. Suicide missions are my favorite.” Sam rolled her eyes. Matt raised a brow and frowned. He really didn't need the added difficulty of a bitch who thought too highly of herself, but if this is what he got, that was that. Sam watched him for a moment and slung a backpack over her shoulder. “Have you been tracking the dragon?”

“No we're going in blind. Of course we've been tracking it.” Matt sneered and motioned towards another table. There was a map of Washington D.C. with flight patterns and data on the dragon. Sam looked it over as Matt discussed transport with one of the army men standing off to the side. She ran a hand over the map and then piked up a photo of the creature. It starred defiantly into the camera, as if challenging the person behind. Sam smiled a little and looked at the map again. Matt rejoined her and he nodded.

“Lets get going.” Sam nodded and followed Matt and the lieutenant outside to a waiting Humvee.

“I'm starting to think I should have studied engineering or something in college.” Sam smirked and let loose a little nervous chuckle. Matt didn't even so much as bat an eyelash at her comment. It's going to be a long couple of days...Sam thought and looked out the window watching the skyline of the city disappear into the horizon.

In Which We Prepare for ScriptFrenzy

Aaaaaaand, I'm back!

So it has come to my attention that in a very short period of time, ScriptFrenzy will begin. The second (well first chronologically speaking) of the Office of Letters and Lights annual festivities is about to kick off. I, myself, have never participated in this maddening affair though I am making an attempt to this year. Wish me luck. My friend Patrick offered me a link that I'm now going to offer to you. It brings you to a free online course on how to write a screenplay, so if you haven't but still want in on this, have fun! How to Write a Screenplay by the University College at Falmouth

Ok ok so I've avoided talking about what the challenge entails up until now. Here goes. Don't run. Have a cookie. Sit, yes? Good. *deep breath* It's a challenge to write a 100 page screenplay by the end of April. http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/scriptfrenzy

Have you ever wished there were a version of NaNoWriMo dedicated to scriptwriting?

There is!

Script Frenzy!
Write a movie, play, TV show, or graphic novel with us in April!

The Office of Letters and Light is proud to announce the fourth-annual Script Frenzy event coming up this April. For it, participants take on the challenge of writing 100 pages of scripted material in the month of April. Every writer who completes the goal of 100 pages is victorious and awe-inspiring and will receive a handsome Script Frenzy Winner's Certificate and web badge proclaiming this fact.

Even those who fall short of the word goal will be applauded for making a heroic attempt. Really, you have nothing to lose—except that nagging feeling that there's a script inside you that may never get out.

Who: You and everyone you know. No experience required.

What: 100 pages of original scripted material in 30 days. (Screenplays, stage plays, TV shows, short films, and graphic novels are all welcome.)

When: April 1-30. Every year.

Where: Online and in person. Hang out in the forums, join your fellow participants at optional write-ins all around the world. (Your NaNoWriMo user name works over at www.scriptfrenzy.org.)

Why: Because you have a story to tell. Because we all need creative challenges. And because making stuff feels great!

Stil there? Awesome. Have another cookie. Unlike NaNoWriMo, since I have never finished this or even attempted it, I will not be an ML or anything of the like. However, since I'm doing this too, I figure I'll have some interestingly humorous posts regarding it on the blog. Maybe even a stress induced cartoon. Who can tell?

Oh also, April hapens to be National Poetry Month so Inkwell will be hosting a Poetry Slam mid month (more details to follow pending approval). This month has a lot packed into it. So deep breath y'all. Here goes nothing!

Namaste,
Jessi

Exercise 4 from Goggles and Lace: A Different Perspective

(I should preface this by saying that this particular scene was incredibly difficult to write but, yes, it really did happen, though certain dialogue etc that i was physically not present for has been fictionalized, obviously. I wish I could have written something else, but this is what leapt to mind.)

"I'm doing the right thing." I sighed and pushed a blond lock of hair backwards from my face. I looked in the rear view mirror of my car. The cruiser was right behind me as we pulled up to the ivory colored house. On the outside everything looked so tranquil. So normal. I took a deep breath and got out. Officer Flannigan nodded and patted me on the back. I rang the doorbell.

"Just a minute" I sighed and my hear drops. They don't know I'm coming yet. I'm always nervous at these things. But it's for the best. I have to keep telling myself that otherwise I'll end up second guessing. I can't afford that here. I glanced at the driveway anxiously. Her husband wasn't home. Maybe it would be easier.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Peterson" My rehearsed lines seemed to literally fall out of my head as I looked at the woman, holding her 6 month old little girl. I coughed and stepped into the house, Officer Flannigan behind me.

"What's going on?"

"Based on the evidence, from your neighbors, doctors, and what I've observed here in your home, I'm coming to collect your children and bring them to foster care, pending a trial."

"What?!?"

"Please. Get the other two children and have them pack some clothes." I looked past her to see the eldest of the children sitting on the stairs. I smiled at her and I was met with the hatred I'd only seen out of grown adults. I reached out to her in vain and she bolted up the stairs, slamming her door.

"I don't understand!" The mother began crying and making mention of something but I could have cared less about her. Her case file had her diagnosed as manic depressive with mild adult ADD, a lifetime of verbal and physical abuse from her deceased father, and a laundry list of other issues. Besides, I've honestly heard most excuses before. As with all my cases, I was far more concerned with the children involved than the parents. I looked over to Officer Flannigan and he nodded, heading upstairs to go get the little girl. The middle child, a boy of 4, was already downstairs, playing quietly, a giant bruise on his forehead, from what they claimed was an accident at church. The mother was packing the two younger childrens' clothes. Officer Flannigan reappeared with the eldest under his arm. She was crying. I had to look away. The mother was yelling but at this point I had almost completely blocked her out. The rest was a blur...

We made it out to my car, the children packed into the back seat, their bags in the trunk. I looked up to the rear view, starring right back at me was the eldest. She starred at me defiantly. She would get over this... Move onto a better life, with a family that treated her well.

"Do you have anything you want to say, Jess?"

"You're a bitch."

Failure and its Inherent Sexuality

The idea of failure is something that has lingered for too long on many of our minds. Whether it's failure at a story or failure in a relationship, or whatever; we've all experienced it. And it an be completely and utterly heart breaking. Then there are some who are better than the rest of us that an find happiness in their misery. They come out of the shit pile looking fresh and clean; generally with a book deal chronicling their experience with that failure. While I'm certainly not the first to think this it's something that's been on my mind almost as often as the idea of failure.

I'm 25. I work as a middle manager at a retail chain. I have a degree from the Umass school system in Writing Rhetoric and Communication. How do I not have a job I can look at and say, "You know what Jess? You've done well."

I'm 25. I -had- a fiance. It was the sort of thing I could have easily continued on with and continued the pattern set down by so many before me, my parents included. They were happy for years. I remember that. But they've always resented each other. I remember that too. I can't set myself up for a life full of resentment. He'll be a good man for the right woman, I know it. I was not that woman however.

I'm 25. I live at home with my parents because my job doesn't pay me enough to pay back my student loans and to move on with my life.

I'm 25. And fairly lost. The GPS doesn't seem to be helping.

On the flip side...

I'm 25 and I know my self worth. I know for a fact I'm worth more than what is being given to me. And it isn't because of the self esteem parenting that so many people were raised on. The belief that we're all special snowflakes that can "save the world". I don't think I am. But gods be damned if I'm going to let that stop me from trying to one day be a wife, mother, and successful author.

I'm 25. I have a great family. Not only biologically but I'm incredibly lucky in the fact that I can't count on one hand all of my close friends. There are many I trust and keep around me as closely as I can.

I'm 25. I run a writing group that feeds and maintains the creative spirit in the community. Sadly my partner in this is in FL, but we continue on, not in spite of her absence but because when she comes home, she'll have another home to return to. The creative spirit is something that should never falter even within the confines of a modern world. One word: magic.

I'm 25 and I'm lost. But damn if I'm not having fun finding my way.

Remember: Even if your life isn't going as it's planned out in your head, remember that you have made a difference in your world. Even if it's a microcosm you did it. The road you're paving is there for a reason, so why is it?

Failure is a very sexy notion in the modern vernacular and while I could go on for a long time on the subject, I'm going to instead link you to a good blog post on it. I was surfing the internet at 4 in the morning, and found this Why is Failure so Sexy? by Tim Stevens. He's a minister somewhere and while some of his posts are a little heavy handed, I thought this one was very well written. Check it out.

Namaste,
Jessi

Next time on A BA in BS: The importance of editing as demonstrated by reworking a recent blog post.

Dear Diary: Writing Challenge from Kit Fox

Dear Diary,
It's been a long couple of days. I've been roped into another mission with the Alliance. I know, the last time I write to you, I was vowing I would never take another mission from them.I can't turn this one down though. It fucking sucks. And not in the whiny emo-bitch-boy way. More like in the way that I may lose my mind. Even as I write this I can feel the monster's claws digging deeper into my soul. Fucked up, eh?

Anyway, so I took back up writing because my 'therapist' here on the ship, said it would help.Yeah that's the other thing. I'm now on an Alliance vessel in a room twice the size of my whole damned ship, which is sitting in their docking bay. I find myself sitting pondering what the hell happened in my life to get me here. It's bullshit and bad decisions mostly but... I can't help but think that the violent streak in me, brought it all about. I knew this part of me, even before I killed that woman. My first kill. Fuck...

Tears are a weird thing. You can cry when you're upset, cry when you're happy, and cry when there's nothing left. I'm at the nothing left point. It's fucking disgusting. The bullshit macho bravado is killing me. And the worst part is that I cant let that show. Not until I'm out in the field. Then the empty souled killer comes out. Even Angela couldn't stand me. Hell she killed for a living too. The difference is that bitch dared to have a soul through it all. She's the only one that's dared to call me on the monster in me and lived. Just barely, but she's still alive. She's probably out of the hospital by now. It's been a few weeks. To think I used to love her. Her last words to me were 'I can't believe I loved you'. Worst part... I still love her. After all the shit she's put me through...And don't think I'm the only one with anger issues. I can't tell you how many ribs of mine she broke...

So here I am. Grumbling about my life, so my therapist can tear me apart and attempt to make it all better.I don't think the empath understands that she can't just fix this. Hell she couldn't even be in the same room as me for our initial meeting. bitch broke down and started crying. And what did I do? Started laughing. And I starred at her. She's weak. The weak die last, so she'll probably out live me. Not that any of that matters.

Memory...

Malia smiled softly as her head lay on his lap, the twosome basking in the warm spring sunlight. Her face turned to look at him. though is face was almost blacked out by the bright sun. She smiled, a soft secret smile, one that she only ever showed him. His love, his protection, his strength guided her on.

Her arm bent upwards and caressed the side of his face, softly with the back of her hand. The moment was perfect. She smiled and closed her eyes again, humming softly to herself...

Her eyes opened, and tears poured out from them, cleaning her dirt stained cheeks. Her left hand raised to her face and wiped away the dirt and the tears, remembering that warm spring day was so far from her now... It hurt. Her soul was torn and old wounds had been ripped open anew. She sat here silent in the cold cell , pulling her knees to her chest. She had been here for some months, unable to do anything but sleep and stare blankly at the walls. The guards were fairly ambivalent to her presence, as she caused no trouble. Why was she here? She couldn't remember but it was clearly important enough that she had her memory of the event wiped out. All she could remember was him.

She ran a hand over her arms, softly, trying to remember her strength... Her hands fell to her sides and pushed against the floor, bringing herself up to standing very slowly. Her legs felt weak. Her body wobbled a little as she stood still. The cell had become her home. She glanced over her shoulder out the doors. They held promise beyond them. He was out there... She looked away from the clear doors to her hands. Scarred but fine fingers, long and sinewy, the fingers of a pianist. She found the strength to walk forward and press her fingers against the cold glass-like substance of the door. A memory flashed before her eyes and she smiled. Her soft grey eyes closed and ripples of cold blue energy emitted from them, shattering the material beneath. Escape... The glass pieced itself back together quickly and a guard walked passed by, shaking his head. Malia smiled as he went on his way. Escape would allude her today...

She steppes back from the door and looked around her cell and began humming softly to herself. The sun streamed through the small window and outside a bird sung... for a moment... Just a moment, she was back on in the park, her head on his lap. And the world was perfect again...