Posted in writing


Anatomy of a Bag of Sunflower Seeds: Aka 500% of your daily recommended intake of sodium.

  • Nice, intact, flavorful shells containing the sweet fruit inside: 80%
  • Remains of shells; empty: 5%
  • Brittle shells that break apart entirely when you try to crack them open in your mouth, leading to what I like to call ‘termite-itis’: 5%
  • Burnt ass seeds (hyphenate how you like) that managed to remain in the roasting process for another cycle, leading to a rancid taste that won’t ever leave short of brushing your teeth: 4.5%
  • Shells containing questionable, grainy interiors that are most likely bugs that decided to make their homes in your seeds: 4%
  • Lonely yet tasty ‘effortless’ seeds that managed to sneak out of their shells and hide out in the bottom of the bag along with the sedimentary seasoning: 1%
  • Freaking sticks from who knows where?  At least they are seasoned too, so you can enjoy their flavor if just for a bit: .5%
  • Having your lips hurt for the next few days from all the salt performing reverse osmosis on them: 100%
Posted in Series, writing

Show and Tell

Art; By Any Other Name: Chapter 2

“Good Morning everyone.”  Arthur calls out, stepping into the classroom, allowing the voices die out.  “For those of you who haven’t had me before, I am Mr. Brown…” He explains, starting to scribble his name onto the whiteboard with a washed-out marker.  Distracted, he is still beaming from the successful opening the evening prior.  “Although, many of you are just going to call me Arthur anyways, so I don’t know why I bother with ever announcing my last name.”  He jokes.

A selection of the class starts to chuckle lightly.  “Don’t forget Art… Teacher.”  Another voice chimes in, and more laughs join the chorus.

“Yes, that nickname has seemed to stick through the years.”  Arthur rolls his eyes, picking up several stacks of papers in various colors.  “I’ll start passing out the syllabus… and with it, a flyer in goldenrod telling you about my Art Gallery.”

“You have a gallery now Arthur?”  Comes the call from several students.

“I have… control of a gallery.  I’m running it for the remainder of the fall season, until the pieces get to go elsewhere.” He explains.

“Where did they come from then?”  Comes a question.  “Why do you have to give them up?”

“Do I look like I can afford priceless pieces of art?”  Arthur teases.  “I teach high school punks like you five days a week, and not even all year round.  I could barely afford the art that kids scribble on placemats at the buffet.”

Arthur waves his hands downwards, waiting for the playful snickering to die out.  “That’s why I’m introducing this now… because it won’t be around for the whole semester.  I want to organize a field trip for everyone to head out there for our Renaissance unit, but as you know, the district doesn’t like to shell out money for stuff like that.  I wanted to have some of your parents to come by so that they can possibly put in a good word.”

“There’s no way my dad will want to see any art.”

“That’s right Mr. Brown, when we were kids, his dad kicked us out of the yard for drawing with chalk on the concrete.”

“We were in his parking spot, to be fair.”

“Okay, I get it.”  Arthur stops the boys.  “The flyer has everything you parents should want to know about the gallery if they so choose to stop by this Friday night.  After all, I don’t really get any parent-teacher conferences like the other teachers.   And if they decide not to come… be sure to let them know they’re classes plebeians.”


Bow tie nearly stifling his breathing, Arthur watches shifty-eyed as the trays full of plastic stem ware are filled sloppily, alternating cheap champagne and sparkling cider.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous about this now, Arthur.”  Tara pokes him in the back.

“Talking up in front of art fans—that’s one thing.  They already into the art for crying out loud!  Their focus is on me… silently criticizing and confirming my ability to show these interesting pieces as much fanfare as they deserve.  Who knows with these… parents?”

“I… I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Arthur…  Are you saying people didn’t think you were the right choice to host the exhibit?”

“No, Tara, try to keep up.”  He gives a quick shake of his head.


“I have to… convince these parents that… art has its merits and that… that I’m not wasting their time here… or that their kids aren’t wasting their time in my class.”

“I think you’re way overthinking this.  That parents who do come are going to be just as enthusiastic about art as the kids who enrolled in your class.”  Tara reassures him, hand slowly moving towards one of the full glasses.

“No!”  Arthur shouts, hand swatting hers away in an exceedingly gentle motion.  “Sorry… we need to have as much alcohol about so the parents can… relax, if just a bit.”

“Have it your way.”  Tara rolls her eyes before turning on her tall heels and trotting off.

Looking down at his watch, Arthur watches as the hands moves closer to the opening time.  Shoving the collection of empty glass bottles to the back of the building, he quickly returns to the front of the house and unlocks the doors, swinging them open towards the path up from the street.  The cool fall breeze rolls in, exhausting some of the heat from under his collar.

As the clock hits its mark, Arthur undoes the velvet rope barrier to the empty entranceway.  A few minutes pass, and a sole couple turns into the path, making their way up towards the door.  The woman, draped in a lazy looking sun dress, waves at him.

“Mr.  Brown, right?”

“Nancy!  Thank you for coming tonight.”  Arthur gives a quick nod of his head to the two.

“Sorry we’re a bit late.  Finding a parking spot here was tough at this time of day.”

“Oh!  No problem.”  Arthur relaxes upon hearing the words.  “Please head on inside for now.  My assistant here will be able to show you around while we wait for other parents to show up…”

As the two walk in through the doors, another few start to move towards the entrance, looking up at the tall David statue.  Giving them another nod as they pass, Arthur follows them in.  Passing the doors, he gives a brief look back at the statue, starting to glow under the orange accent lights dancing up at the statue’s legs.

As Parents start to mix with the regular visitors, Arthur passes by the various groups, talking with parents he recognizes, and following up on those who happened to bring the flyer he had given out.

“Hey, you in the suit!”  Someone calls out.  A tall man in Khaki shorts and a rough looking t-shirt walks up to him, sandals flapping under his feet.  “Mr… Brown, am I right?”

“You’ve found me.”  Arthur responds timidly, looking upwards at the tall man as he initiates a borderline violent handshake.

“I’m Charlie’s dad.  Eric.  Nice ta’ meet ch’a.”

“Charmed.”  Arthur responds, cradling his crushed phalanges.  “I’m glad you were able to make it.”

“Well… you know.  Not too much into art myself.  The wife wanted me to come though, check things out.”

“I’m glad you could make it at least.  Are there any pieces you would like to know more about?”  Arthur offers.

“There was one thing I suppose… I was worried about allowing my kid here because… well, you know.”  The man clears his throat.  “There are a lot of nudies in these paintings.  Boys these days… you know… horn dogs.”

“Nudies?  Horn dogs?”  Arthur gives him a sideways glance.  “Oh, you mean work with nudity.  Well, Romance artists did have a sort of fascination with the human figure.  You must have seen our David out front, no?  One of Michelangelo’s most famous works.”

“Hey.”  The man nods, looking up at a print of The Birth of Venus.  “Do you think these old guys… ever spanked their meat to one of these paintings?”

“Spanked their meat?”  Arthur squints at him sideways.

“You know.”  The man offers, shaking his hand back and forth near his groin suggestively.

“Oh!  Well… The ancient Roman people were very open sexually.  It’s very much reflected in the paintings too.  You know, prostitution is actually one of the oldest professions, and in those days, it was just a part of society for someone… you know… to want… certain things.”

“Ha ha ha!”  The man laughs.  “Could it be… Arthur, that you’re a prude?”

Feeling his face start to become warm, he stumbles.  “Well… I’m just another one of the guys… I guess…”

“You’re a riot man.”  The man chuckles.  “I can see why my kid likes you.  I’m gonna’ check around for a bit and head back.  Might catch you later, then?”

“Yes… yeah… catch you later.”  Arthur stutters as the dad walks off.

“Hehe.”  A small feminine chuckle from behind catches him off guard.  “Don’t pay him any attention.  I swear, that man has no tact whatsoever.”

“Excuse me?”  Arthur ponders aloud, turning his head to face the voice.  His head tilts down to face the woman, deep brown hair and tanned skin looking past him at the dad strutting through the exhibit.

“I once chaperoned with him on a field trip back when our kids were in middle school together.”  She explains, eyes rolling.  “I mentioned how I had a tri-tip sandwich packed for lunch, and he ended up talking my ear off about the positives and negatives of each type of fuel you could use on a barbecue.  No matter how disinterested I could make myself sound, he wouldn’t take the hint.”

“I… see.” Arthur replies, eyes blinking rapidly back at her.

“I’m so sorry, I’m doing the same thing.”  She giggles, shaking her head.

“No, no.  Not at all.”

“I’m Lisa- Caroline’s mom.”

“Oh, yes.  One of my freshmen students.”  Arthur perks up.  “They all seem so excited about this year.  Her… enthusiasm about art must come from somewhere, I suppose?”

“Oh, well.”  Lisa flaunts.  “I took a few art classes in college.  Not even enough for a minor in it.  I just happen to take the bus by this place on my way to work, actually.  I had seen it, never assuming it would belong to one of her students.”

“I don’t own this, no no.”

“Oh, then…?”

“I did… I did organize most of the pieces making their way here.”  Arthur adds assuredly.  “I know all about these pieces.  Would you like me to show you around?”

“Oh!”  Lisa claps her hands together enthusiastically.  “Well, don’t mind if I do.”

Pacing the gallery, Arthur stops by each of the paintings, enthusiastically talking about the styles and artists.  After picking up a couple glasses of the champagne, they two head outside to the garden, already mostly empty.

“…I can’t say that’s exactly how they did it, but the painting was obviously an extremely involved project.”

“I… see.”  Lisa responds, eyes drifting off towards the replica statue, empty glass dangling in her hand.

“I uh… I’m sorry if none of that made sense.”  Arthur apologizes, downing the rest of the bubbly liquid, stifling the cough it causes.  “Forgive me, too, if I didn’t leave any spaces to get a word in…”

“Oh, no.  I’m sorry if it seems like that.”  Lisa replies honestly.  “I did agree to have you show me around, after all.  This statue just caught my eye.”

“Ah, it’s another replica, just like our David out front.  The local university’s art class made it.  I should mention the work it’s based on is another Michelangelo; this one is called ‘Night.’” Arthur explains, gesturing at the figure of the woman lying on her side.

                “It’s quite nice.”

“Mhm, I’d say they did a good job.”

“Although there’s one thing about it that is distracting.”  Lisa adds.

“Oh?”  Arthur replies hesitantly.

“Forgive me if this sounds crude but… the chest seems a bit off.  You think the students were bashful when they worked on this part.”

“Ah, well, interesting you say that.”  Arthur points at the statues breasts.  “It’s actually quite true to the style.  You see, Michelangelo himself wasn’t very great at reproducing the feminine form in marble like this.”

“I can see that.”  Lisa nods her head quizzically.

“During his lifetime, it was never clear his sexual orientation.  However, when historians went through his writing, it became obvious that the man was clearly, very, flamingly, homosexual.”  Arthur explains, wavering back and forth with a grin on his face.

“Ha!”  Lisa snorts, holding her mouth.  Slipping from her hand, the plastic champagne glass falls to the ground.

“It’s most likely he never properly saw a naked woman in his life.”

“I hope this isn’t what my daughter and the rest of your students are learning in your class.”  Lisa giggles, wiping the corners of her eyes.

“Some people…”  Arthur continues, ignoring the previous comment. “…have compared the breasts he made to ‘crushed oranges,’ simply stuck on the chest of a man.” He goes on, wagging his finger at the statue.

Lisa releases another snort, covering her mouth, buckling over to stifle her laughter.  Moving to pick her discarded glass on the ground, the door opening behind them make the two jump.

“Arthur… uh, Mr. Brown, you need to come and see this.”  The dad from before bursts out from the exit.  “Hi, Lisa.  Long time no see.”

“What’s going on?  Is there something going on inside?” Arthur asks, worried.

“Not inside… but we’ve had maybe some vandalism with the big guy out front.”  The dad waves at them to push through the bushes by the side of the building.

“David?”  Arthur mumbles, jumping over the short row of hedges to the front walkway.  Stumbling after him, Lisa follows.

“It seems…”  Eric explains, pointing up at the statue.  “Someone stole his junk.”

“His junk?”  Arthur makes his way up, looking up at the front of the statue where a significant chunk of plaster has been ripped off between the statues legs.  “My god, they’ve castrated him.”

“Oh god, Arthur.”  Lisa attempts to stay straight-faced.  “To be honest, though, it wasn’t the most detailed package I’ve seen.”

“I… I don’t know what I’m going to do about this…”  Arthur slumps down, defeated.

Posted in writing

How A Gallery Goes Together

Art; By Any Other Name: Chapter 1

How A Gallery Goes Together

“Bring the Duccios’ around!  I want them here.”  He shouts.  “Please, please, don’t put those two together, Michael.  Their pallets just… clash horribly!”  Twisting about to follow the paths of various canvases about the room, his thick glasses glare brightly from the late afternoon sun shining in the windows.  Under the orange accent lighting, bits of his parted bangs start to dangle down by his forehead as the heat from the bulbs eat away at the consistency of the pomade.

More warm air crawls into the room, washing in from the back where the workers had started to unload the two larger pieces that had come in on the truck.  Clipboard in hand, Arthur begins to take down the pieces’ title’s as they pass by him.

“Ey, buddy, where d’ya want this one?”  The coverall-clad man passes by, holding roughly onto the tarnished wooden frame.

“That one…”  Arthur turns to look at the painted surface.  “Christ, what… what are you doing bringing me that?”  He whines.  “That’s… northern renaissance.  Can’t you tell?  Not a sign of linear perspective anywhere.”  The limp hairs on his forehead dance around atop his sweaty, shining brow.

“I dunno’ what you’re sayin’ bub.”  The man complains, peering at the painting in his hands.  “I just unload trucks.”

“Ugh.”  Arthur shakes his head.  “It’s all I can do to manage these… these Italian pieces alone.  I can’t have this… stuff in here yet!  Just put… put it down anywhere.”  He continues, swinging his free hand about.  “Don’t let me look at it.  I need to sit down and… and refocus on the task at hand.”

“Whateva’ you say boss.”  The worker replies, shaking his head.  Running his fingers through his hair, Arthur stomps off to the small cube-shaped office at the back of the building.

The swiveling chair squeaks loudly as Arthur flops down into it, eyes fixated on the ceiling.  Huffing silently, he draws in the air absentmindedly with his index finger, unaware of the young lady entering the room after him.

“Arthur, Arthur… Please just let some of us help.  Maybe I can do that Northern Renaissance stuff?”  She begs, leaning against the desk in her black pencil skirt and short heels.

“No no no.”  Arthur responds frantically.  “You know of all these pieces that… that those works are my favorite.”

“Arthur, just take a deep breath.  You’ve said that about half of the pieces you requested to come in this week.  Just let us take over some of the display areas, okay?”

“Fine fine.”  He says, exhaling loudly.  “Sorry Tara.  I just… I just want this to succeed so badly.”

“And it will.  As long as the boss keeps his head on straight.”  Tara rolls her eyes, jabbing Arthur in the back of the neck with her finger.  “Take a break here.  Turn on the air.  Think about… maybe what pieces you want to focus on.  We’ve still got all day tomorrow and Sunday afternoon to work out the kinks before we open that night.  Maybe you can present your favorite… no, absolute favorite piece from the collection.  Call it… Gallerist’s Choice.”

“That sounds… nice.”  Arthur nods, glancing at the girl.  “I think I have one in mind.”

As Tara trots out of the room, Arthur peers out the thick glass window to the show floor.  The stark white walls glow with accent lighting, placed at asymmetrical intervals in a way that were sure to catch the eye.  The freshly installed marble tile floors give off a pleasant glow, highlighted nicely by the brown matte finish of dirty footprints trailing back and forth on the surface.  The fine pieces that had found their places on the wall had shifted to unique positions, placed on a bias to garner interest.  Even the missing nameplates gave a sense of mystique to the growing installation.

Only the weekend ahead lay between Arthur and the opening of the Gallery, which would fall on the first day of autumn there in Toronto.  The chamber of commerce had made him, a nervous high school art teacher, the head of the gallery for the season, until the works got packed up and shipped off for another gallery in another town to display.  Just three months of making sure that everything went smoothly.

The following day found more paintings finding places on walls, only slightly disturbing the perceived plan inside of Arthur’s mind.  Large Styrofoam and plaster replicas of Michelangelo’s and Donatello’s sculptures had been delivered; creations by the local university.  The statues of David and Night, while not perfect, offered a unique presence, being displayed at the entrance and humble garden area by the side of the downtown building.

“Tara… may you pay a visit to my office, please?”  Arthur calls out, sticking his head past the half-open door.

Heels clicking against the hard floor surface, the young lady makes her way into the dinky office, amess with papers.  “Yes, sir?”

“Tara…”  He muses, chin balanced on his fist, elbow balanced on the table.  “I noticed when I came back from lunch… the statue of David out front hadn’t moved.”

“Yes, well… we intent to keep him there.  There should also be a sign with the name of the exhibit out…”

“Uh wait wait wait.”  Arthur interrupts, waving his hand impatiently.  “I think… well, I feel… no- no!  You should have asked me first.  Don’t tell me it’s stuck there.”

“Stuck?  No, but we have some sandbags along the base to keep it stable.”  She responds cautiously.  “If you’re worried about it getting stolen…”

“I don’t care about… that.”  He interjects again, standing up to look out towards the front of the building.  “Do we really want that… thing in clear view up front?”

“Well, why not?”  Tara offers.  “It’s a very iconic, recognizable piece, and I really think the university did a really great job on it.  And, like I said, it will draw attention to the signboard for the exhibit.  You know, the sign we commissioned and got your name on.”

Arthur sighs loudly.  “That thing… for being out front… is very… well… naked.”  Tara raises her eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.  “I get it, don’t look at me like that.  But having that be the first thing people see… is… risqué.”

                “I really don’t think people are going to think something like that about such a thing.  Would you like me to hang up a sign in front of the statue’s groin for you?”  She says, half joking.

“Are you kidding me?”  Arthur turns suddenly, grabbing at his hair.  “That’ll just draw more attention to… it.  Just… I don’t know… make sure none of the accent lighting is pointed in that direction.”

“Fine, fine.  I’ll make sure our curly-haired hero doesn’t draw any… lascivious thoughts.  I think I hear the truck pulling around, Arthur.  That’ll be the last of the reproduction Bruegel’s, to round out everything.”

“Thank you, Tara.”  He responds more calmly.  “I’ll give you a call if you have any more ideas.”

“I’m sure you will.”  She comments as she passes out through the doorway.

Posted in writing

But Maybe Not…

It was a dark and stormy night… well, actually, it was about mid day, and pretty nice out too.  Not even a drop of rain.  Perhaps a bit humid, though.

Something evil was afoot.  By evil, I mean just unpleasant.  Not even pleasant in the slightest.  Your grandmother, if she happened to be visiting at the time, would probably give it a ‘tut tut’ and a finger wag.  I mean, she was raised in a different time, with different cultural standards.  She might be one of the few who would actually find any of it distasteful.

A knock came to the door, but when I answered, nobody was there.  Perhaps they saw my no soliciting sign after it was too late?  I don’t know how many people actually pay it any warning- if someone did come by and notice it, I would have never been the wiser. Whether it works or not, no knocks would come to my door.

Except this one.  I spotted the package, and heard the sound of the UPS truck driving off. The box had been placed neatly by my door, and I brought it inside.  Even though I ordered it myself, it still feels like Christmas when a big package shows up addressed to you.

The phone rang ominously.  You know, its funny how we still say that it’s ‘ringing’ even if you just have it on vibrate.  Nobody with cell phones have fancy music ring tones anymore.  If you had a house phone, it would definitely ring, but as for cell phones, being more or less always on your person, vibrating is perfectly fine.  If you didn’t want to answer it, you would have to wrestle it into silence before everyone in a mile radius knows about you screening your calls.

An eerie voice spoke to me through the speaker.  “Congratulations! You’ve just won a Bahamas cruise for two…” Well, if I am indeed the special winner, you couldn’t have a real person get on the phone to tell me?  Like I said… evil afoot.


Posted in writing

Game Show

The money came out of the tills and into the bag; the bag into his hands.  He knew there was more, but there wasn’t enough time to get it.  The poor girl behind the counter looked scared enough.  She must be new here.  What poor luck for her.  At least she knew what to do in this situation.  Press the panic button, give them what they want.

The traffic outside would at least slow down the police from getting there.  That was also part two of him and his partner’s plan.  Out of the bank doors they went, then around the corner into the alleyway.  They had already seen that the cameras were easy to avoid. Off with the masks, and out to the opposite side of the block.

There was no getaway car.  It would be too easy to track, license plate and all.  There were plenty of cabs in the city that would serve them the same purpose.  Standing on the side of the street to hail one, they would be indistinguishable from every other business-casual office worker that day, heading back from lunch.

One showed up.  They slid into the back seat, one by one.  Tell them where you need to go, and shut the door without another glance outside.  The vacancy light goes off, and they would be home free behind their tinted glass windows.

The bright lights come on, followed by the extravagant music.  A video camera points at them from the front seat, and the driver, gleaming smile and all, looks back at them.

What the fuck is this?

“Welcome to the Money-Mobile, where we ask you stupid questions for the chance to win our chump change on the way to your destination!”

No, we just need to go.

“Sorry fellas, if you guys don’t want to appear on the show, we have to let you out.  We’ll comp you a ride with another taxi, but you will have to wait for it to come.”

No, no.  We need to go now.

“Well let’s get this started then!  You two fellas look like you’ve had a hard enough day.  Let’s make it a little better with a chance to win some money.  But before that, here’s some messages from our sponsors!  –Alright guys, we need you to sign these waivers and release documents so we can put you on TV.  You’re all cool with that, right?–”




Posted in writing

Mechanical Cacophony

In a world where people turned to robots to carry out battles, it wasn’t long before the AI within the robots developed feelings themselves.

It started out in a fairly humble manner.  Well, as humble as two hunks of metal tearing into each other would be.  Originally, the robots were controlled by humans.  When makers started to develop partial AI control for their bots, they started seeing improvements in the overall precision they could carry out.  The next obvious step would be to allow artificial intelligence to fully take control of these machines.

Those who could develop the technology first were ahead of the game.  However, others caught up fast.  Necessity is the mother of invention after all.  Some would say survival is something necessary.  Eventually, fights evolved into contests based on how well programmed one’s AI was.

We taught robots to fight.  We taught them to hate, to desire destruction and violence. The more vicious, the more likely it would not hold back against other machines. Somewhere in the mess of it all, it seemed as if the AIs also developed feelings.  Not literal happy-sad feelings like that, but rather the ability to sense pain.  Nobody knew how it happened, as a robot has no central nervous system, and barely what you could call a brain. Nevertheless, when a bot took damage, it would react as if it had been physically hurt.

Before that time, they had no way of communicating verbally.  The introduction of speakers into the bots lead to a predictable outcome: screaming.  Metallic screams of agony each time some saw blade or hammered strike made contact with their shell. No words of any sort could be coaxed out, either.  It was if they were inconsolable.

When the artificial howls of misery finally ceased, we considered all of our options.  The final consensus was that it would be a good idea to retire out bots, and just return to fighting the ways we had always done it, allowing real people to hurt each other.  Robot screams are just too weird after all.

Posted in Updates, writing

The House by the Lake

Before you read this excerpt, here’s a quick announcement.  The project this comes from is my Camp NaNoWriMo projected called “The Tallboy,” a biographical fiction based loosely on one of my family members.  I am including other writing projects I’m currently working on into the word count goal because I’m not sure I can reach it on this story alone, and because I can’t say no to the ideas in my head.  For this same reason, I’ve also started a second blog featuring various works of manga.  Check it out!

I grew up in a little house by a lake.  I would probably venture to say that many houses in the area were by a lake.  Minnesota is known as the land of a thousand lakes after all.  So, no matter where you built, you were guaranteed to be not far from a lake, be it big or small.

I think saying it was a little house would be a bit of a misnomer as well.  It probably felt small to me because by the time I arrived, it was pretty much packed full.  When I was born, I gained the title ‘baby’ of the family, and ended up holding on to it because I ended up being the last child that my parents would pop out.  By the time my first memories started forming, my two older brothers and two older sisters were already ‘big kids’ as you might say.  So, there we all were, in that little house by a lake.

My father, Lawrence, was a working man.  As a kid, that meant to me that he was always leaving the house going to work.  He managed a movie theater there in the little town where we lived.  Until a certain age though, I never saw it.  My mother, Marinda, was always at home without a doubt, taking care of my siblings and I.  However, she never had enough time to devote to each of us, especially when it was just here trying to run around after all five of us.

My two brothers, Randy and Perry, were the trouble makers. I can remember my mother running around after them the most, trying to keep them from hurting themselves or others.  My two sisters, Sarah and Ilene, were the oldest siblings.  I remember them being the ones who often were taking care of me; preparing meals, getting me dressed.  They probably ended up changing my diapers a few times too.

By the time I was old enough to go to school, I was also helping out my father at the theater.  It was almost like my playground where I could go to hang out after school.  I was often forced to help, though.  My father would spend most of his time fiddling with the two projectors; feeding the reels, checking sound, alignment, ordering new films.  Then he would run around to the front and take the nickels for the ticket price and let people in. Continue reading “The House by the Lake”

Posted in writing

Banshee’s Warning

The scream came.  It chilled me to the bone, because I knew what it could be.  Nobody else lives around these parts, really. The neighbors- they’re miles away.  It didn’t sound like an animal either, at least not like one I had heard before. Not even some beast on the brink of death would utter such a cry.  It had to have been a banshee.

The sound it utters can’t measure up to the horror of the message it brings.  She– it– whatever– would be out there, like some sort of specter, its existence simply something not of this world, and yet here it lingers.   Its presence, however, means that there’s death impending upon your household.  The bitch could barely even be considered akin to a god of death, rather just some sort of macabre messenger.

If only my husband were here, and not away in town.  Though, I doubt he would be able to do anything in this situation.  My kids had crept into the back corner of the room, huddling against each other.  They heard it too.  I told them they should not fear it, as it would most likely mean them no harm.  I didn’t know if that would be the case or not.  I wrapped them in a blanket, hoping to give them the illusion of safety.

In turn, I went around the house extinguishing the candles.  Should the banshee drop by and detect no life in our home, perhaps it would simply pass.  Again, I have no idea if this may have done anything at all.

As the sweet smoky smell of smothered wicks filled the room, I heard a loud clang outside the back window. The sound was corporeal, created by the sound of two solid objects colliding.  Yet, I was unsure of whether to trust it.  It sounded like the cellar doors had been lifted open in the wind, and banged back down by gravity… yet, the air outside had been completely still.

Fumbling around in the moonlight drifting through the window, I found my husband’s pistol buried in the back of the cabinet by the door.  I don’t know how to load it, but my husband always leaves a fresh set of rounds in it for times like this when he’s gone.  I didn’t think I would ever have to use it, and I found it hard to believe when I was doing it then.

With the heavy weapon in my hands, I stood and listened.  Something below the floorboards, down in the cellar, was on the move.  Opening the door with as much caution my shaky hand could muster, I exited the small house and crept around the backside to the doorway leading downwards.

The cellar door opened with a muted creak.  I stopped and listened again, the heavy wooden installation resting partway open in my hand.  Through the tiny window came a ray of moonlight, illuminating a tall figure shifting around the mason-jar filled shelves. Gun held up against my opposite wrist to steady the barrel, I pulled the door open more, this time with a loud creak.  The figure jumped and turned.

“You should’a just let me rob ya’.”  Bellowed the man, almost in a growl.  Before he could take a step towards me, I reflexively yanked the heavy trigger with a loud bang, followed by a breathy shudder from the man.  The sound of metal and wood hitting the floor came to my ears, as a hatchet fell from the man’s hands and into the light cast through the window.  The scream came again, this time distant, waning.


Posted in writing

Base Nine

–Hey man, help me with this tip.  What’s like 15% of $24?

–I dunno.  My phones’ dead.

–I wouldn’t have asked you if I could have just done it on my phone myself.  You think three dollar is enough?  The waitress was pretty cool with us.

–Sure, I guess.  I’m not really good with math, though.

–It’s not that hard actually.  Just move the decimal point over by one and add an extra half of that.

–I can’t keep up with you when you say that.  Like I said, I’m really not good at math.  I don’t really even like it either.

–That just means you had a bad teacher or something.

–No, it all just started out bad actually.  You know how they encourage you to count on your fingers until you eventually can do simple stuff in your head?  That never worked for me to begin with.  I only have 9 fingers.

–Really?  Wow, I never noticed.

–Yeah.  Neither did I.  Nor my parents, or any doctors.  Not even the teachers, despite all my struggles.  Everyone was told to count to ten on their fingers, but I always just assumed that there was an extra number in there that I was adding or something.  I can’t remember which number I cut out of my own personal existence, but once that one was gone, I could count to ten just fine, except the number four or something didn’t exist.  I became overwhelmed trying to find out which numbers were wrong or right.

–No way.

–Eventually when I got into more complex math, I was already way behind, and nothing made sense.  It wasn’t until much later after failing many Math classes later that I discovered the problem, but only after getting my first girlfriend.

–What did that do?

–You know when you hold hands with someone and your fingers kind of lace together nicely?  My left hand would never do that, and the girl eventually examined my fingers to try and find out the problem.  I was born without a ring finger on that hand.  Never occurred to me that it wasn’t normal.

–So you’ve been in base nine all your life, then?

–What?  I told you, don’t talk that math stuff with me.

Posted in Updates, writing

Get’chur Ebooks

If anyone was still in doubt, I am still a vlogger, despite my paltry view on Youtube.  Possibly I may be making the move to a different career soon too, one that doesn’t involve putting ingredients between slices of bread.

For now, getting those fat (read: purely fringe) royalty numbers from Amazon is nice to see. Getting my own physical copy of the book that I wrote myself, however,  had a bigger impact than anything else.  From tomorrow, the 30th, to Monday, the third, and eBook copy of Mother of Mars will be free on Amazon.  Additionally, if you buy the physical copy for 6.99, you can get an ebook copy for free as well.

I still need to decide what to do, or otherwise give away this copy I do have, but I don’t know how I plan to do it just yet.  It will give me time to work on my signature, though…