Conversations with kids and more

I talked with Strider this week about shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings. (Although, I’m not sure he’d know what that refers to. I’ll have to ask him. I sure hope he didn’t get to the age of 31 and not know..although, PTSD has helped him lose quite a few memories.) We DID, however, cover a myriad of topics, some I thought others might find interesting.   

Strider often finds moths or creatures I’ve never seen and passes photos on to me. We were talking about night birds (moths) and I shared how a friend in Ohio had posted a photo on FB of a crazy looking insect that resembled a giant light brownish white T. While ‘Letterman’ from ‘The Electric Company’ would have loved this bug, I was startled. I’ve never seen one, I’ve read about them, and they are called a plume moth. Strider then said the Luna moths in VA are starting to be found now, they only live a short time and their deaths herald the end of summer. He mused how odd it was that this large green moth was considered uncommon and that he felt the scientific phrasing for uncommon just meant ‘hard to find’ until they end up on the ground. He also wondered how they survived before cities, he always finds them clinging to cement walls, where they blend in at night. I asked him if they were a prey insect and that was where we skewed off into another thought.

Luna moths are not, but many toxic or dangerous insects and plants are brightly colored. Ladybirds, foxglove, night shade, monarch butterflies, and the like. Others animals who are venomous, are camouflaged. (Granted, some of the latter are bright, but not as many as you’d think) In Eastern Oregon there are rattle snakes. They have a ‘warning’ system and yet you have no clue they are around til you run across one. Most reptiles blend in, they might be bright and colorful if they were on a plain surface, but how odd! Plus, why did God (I do have a belief in a Creator, there is too much on this earth to have come about just because) make those toxic insects so colorful? Is it like males in the animal kingdom only with poison? “See me! I’m gorgeous and deadly to eat, so there! Go and eat that bug you can barely see and need to work for. Don’t mind me, I’ll just sit here and laugh at you as you look.”

During our chat, a large bird flew over. It startled me and we discussed what it might have been. It was NOT an eagle, but we surmised it may have been an osprey. It was large, didn’t even glance at this lake, and was gone in a moment. We discussed chickadees and Strider felt they were not exactly annoying, but impudent. I laughed. (speaking of which, I should go put seed in the open feeder since it stopped raining) He also said robins were the oddest bird in the yard. When I asked why, he said they are so darn fat! I look at them as they are busy digging up grubs and wonder, ‘How in the hell can you even fly?’

We discussed writing and how (I was surprised by this, too) authors don’t write in their ‘own’ voice. They write in the voices of the authors they have read until they end up creating their personal style. Yet, authors often write character or story, few can do both well. I asked him to explain himself and he mentioned one of our favorite books, ‘The Subtle Knife’ by Phillip Pullman. This made a terrible movie because there was too much character and film focuses on story. Also why another incredibly favorite book made such terrible movies, ‘Starship Troopers’ by Heinlein. Philosophy is almost impossible to visualize. (both of those books are heavy on philosophy) For the former, when Pullman made it into a play, it took two days of full length theatre sitting to watch it! The Marvel movies, those had authors who wrote character and lines first and the built the story after. It worked for them (except for the STUPID movie about Carol Danvers). The discussion veered into how he wants to see if he can animate one of his stories he started when he was in the Army. A fellow soldier read it and said he could ‘see’ it, so Strider wants to try. He’s not going to draw with a computer program, though, and he’s skeptical of his skills. The poor kid is convinced he’s too old to learn new things or open himself up to other jobs. (Oh, to infuse our children with confidence..I wasn’t a very good mom, I’d be much better at it now!) We bounced into talking about how there are companies who have employees who spend hours searching blogs or youtube videos for copyright infringements so they can nail others for using them, thereby making thousands of dollars from others. Capitalism at its worst.

At that point, his dad called with the information I asked for on Friday. So, he said he’d send me a Luna moth photo and talk to me later.

Earlier, the Book Lady had stopped by with more boxes for me and brought something to my attention an opinion I felt was silly. The Book Lady picks rhubarb for a church food bank. She had been picking near me, but had an opportunity to pick closer to town. She said she was picking back out north again because the other place had rhubarb of the wrong color. Apparently, people prefer red skinned stalks instead of green!! If you close your eyes and add enough sugar, it all tastes the same!!! (except the leaves, which are toxic…..) This is exactly what is wrong in our world.

The Girl and The Spider (some visuals)

I’m not fond of spiders. I prefer them in the outdoors, admire their spinning, love certain fictional arachnids, and am pretty much terrified of them. I think it is their legs. Things with many legs moving all at the same time intimidate me (I have enough trouble with two), plus they are FAST! I once wrote an erotic type horror story with insects. BAD imagination. I’ll share an excerpt. This story is about a girl looking for a house. Her name is Ivy. She moves into a house with pest problems, she has a cat named Baloo and meets a masculine ghost. I’m starting at the end of the story…

Once in the bath, she opened the body wash called peppermint candy scrub. It smelled good enough to eat. She lit another candle and turned off the overhead lights, leaving on one small mirror light to help illuminate the pretty pink and white bathroom. She turned on the water and sighed as the warm spray hit her tense skin. Lathering up she remembered to shake out her bath pouf as one too many times she found earwigs residing inside. This time it was empty. Ivy was humming and bouncing to Jingle Bell Rock when she thought she heard a meow. Startled, she turned off the faucet and grabbed her towel to wipe the water from her eyes. She called for Baloo, but not a creature was stirring.

Ivy decided to get out and as she stood in the wet porcelain tub she noticed a funny fuzzy clump near the top of her shower. How she hadn’t seen it earlier surprised her, she actually liked caterpillars and hoped to catch it so she could see what it became. Gently she flicked water at it and the thing broke apart into thousands of daddy long legs that scrambled down the wall and onto her. She stumbled back and heard a gurgling noise from the sink near the tub, as Ivy frantically turned she saw an army of earwigs and centipedes emerging from the drain and coming towards her. She felt something biting her feet and looked down to see dozens of ants attacking her from below, blood was streaming down her legs as various insects scaled her body, gouging out a path on her skin. Frantically, she tried to towel them off and only managed to help them in their fleshly assault. More spiders boiled out of the cracks under the molding, rodents came in through the open bathroom door. Crying and screaming, she grabbed the shower curtain which ripped as she slipped and fell. She hit her head on the tub. As she passed out she felt more bugs enter her open mouth and crawl into her nose.

Hours later the Christmas music finished. In the bathroom a fuzzy snowflake towel spotted with red draped over a stripped skeleton gripping a torn shower curtain. In the living room a single gingerbread candle tipped into a basket of pinecones and blazed merrily, the resulting smoke sending hundreds of creatures into the cold night. And in the kitchen, a tall shape bent to stroke a smaller whiskered spirit as they waited for Ivy.

Unfortunately, right now is that time of year when crawling critters move to warmer locations, like inside a house. Little Bear has been absolutely amazing at finding and eradicating spiders before I even see them. (Granted, he calls my attention to his good deeds, so his chivalrous attentions are not quite as!) I entirely appreciate his gallantry, none the less. Especially as he is the son who used to bring such spiders as Brown Recluse into the house and keep them in containers in the laundry room. He also did this with jumping spiders (which are gorgeous and lovely as long as they stay away from me!).

The other day, I was starting to feel better and opted to take a shower. (I haven’t been getting dirty, so don’t really need them as often. Which is good, it hurts to climb in and out of the tub!) I got into the bathroom and briefly thought of spiders, but it was brief. I turned on the water, adjusted the shower head, and climbed in. I had barely gotten wet when I noticed a large brown scurrying on the floor of the tub. My eyes opened in horror as I realized what it was. I, myself scuttled to the back of the tub, trying to breathe and decide what to do, besides screech. (I know I did that, my throat hurt for hours afterwards!)

I didn’t want water all over the bathroom, but I did NOT want to stay in the shower with that creature! (fully recalling the story I’d crafted!) Shaking, I slid the curtains away from the front of the tub and as quickly as possible stepped out onto the towel I’d put on the floor. I grabbed mine up off the nearby stool and stood dripping and gasping (and probably still shrieking). I shuddered, watching it nimbly dodge the hot water swirling around it near the drain. It was so fast and big! I snagged open the cupboard under the sink and saw nothing useful. Pantyliners, Ivory soap, shampoo, Nyquil, and then rubbing alcohol. (are those two latter the same thing?) I grabbed the rubbing alcohol and proceeded to pour it on the dark thing in the tub. Eventually, it went down the drain (yes, I know, but it was NOT itsy or bitsy!).

Shaking, I wondered if I could get back in and finish what I was doing. I did, but I was one terrified girl. Keeping one eye on the drain and the walls and the curtains (wondering if that darn thing had been hiding inside the fabric one with friends) and trying to wash my hair while keeping those stressed eyes open AND cursing my creativity. (did you know that water dripping down bare flesh feels remarkably like something is crawling on you?)

After I dried off, I admit I heavily indulged in both chocolate and caffeine. I’d have had ice cream, too, but I didn’t want to break into Little Bear’s stash (he’s protective of his ice cream!). I think I’ll wait til someone is home when I shower next.  I really don’t like sharing tub time with spiders…..

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Photo by Jeffrey Czum on Pexels.com

Beautiful (over 18)

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I wasn’t sure what to call this. But, after a friend read it and suggested ‘Beautiful’, I went with it. It is long…probably too long, but it wrote itself. I was just the fingers on the keyboard.

****I grimaced, looking in the mirror as tears slid down my cheeks. The healed scars on my chest where my breasts had been were horrible and broke my heart. When George told Barbara to wear her dresses cut low in back after her surgery, I hadn’t really understood her dismay or his caring response. Thinking of the scene in the movie about Sleeping Beauty, I now felt a kinship. When the actress compared her character’s pain with losing her wings to the personal loss of her breasts, it made sense. I realised how a woman losing her breasts was as difficult as the loss of a limb. Breasts nurture, feed, and are an asset. I remembered playing with my Barbie knowing how the breasts defined her out of proportion shape from her younger sister, Skipper. I stifled a sob. I was now Skipper.

How could I hide my deformed body? I recalled hugging a woman with fake boobs and they were solid and painful to my own soft body hug. Mom had some inserts and they were ugly. She had to hand wash the foam, so she rarely wore them. Mom wore a sports bra anyway. I guess she wanted to cling to that adult idiosyncrasy of under clothing. I rarely wore a bra and now my tank tops would display nothing inappropriate. I still couldn’t go topless, though. Our stupid society would be as horrified as I was, only for different reasons. Maybe.

I slipped on an old T-shirt, wiping the salty moisture from my face. Perhaps if I pretended nothing was different, but I knew that wasn’t possible. I was different now. I was surgically changed and for all I could see, it was for the worse. My beautiful orgasmic nipples were gone. The flesh of my breasts had been diseased, cut off, and thrown away. I couldn’t bear to touch my chest. I couldn’t’ see anyone else desiring to do so. My own love, I hid from. My sexuality was eliminated with the stroke of a surgeon’s knife. I knew, deep inside, my insights were false. I couldn’t see anything else. I was a mess and convinced of my Frankenstein appearance.

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

On his way home from work, he stopped for flowers again. He knew she wasn’t fond of roses, so he purchased her favorite carnations. In purple this time. He knew she was feeling vulnerable and afraid. He also picked up a pint of her favorite ice cream. At the post office, he discovered a healing massage essential oil he’d ordered had arrived. He smiled with hope, perhaps he’d let him touch her. Show her she was as beautiful to him as ever.

Once home, he enfolded her in gentle arms. Ready to release her if she desired. Their lips met and he wanted to devour her, but stilled his desire. Her clinging kiss cried out for protection and he was so willing to do so. She gratefully smiled as he handed her the flowers and ice cream. She was so afraid he was blinded to her change. Perhaps they were both in blindfolds. He was not able to see she wasn’t the woman she had been and she could not see past her deformity. He was constantly giving and she was terrified she couldn’t receive properly or give back.

Later that evening, she fell asleep on top of a pillow on his leg. His hand lightly rested on the curve of her beautiful ass. He didn’t want her to awaken or chill, so changed the end of the movie over to soothing jazz and snagged a blanket off the back of the couch to cover her. She sighed and snuggled against the back of the cushions. In her sleep, her fear seemed to abate. A hand slipped from under her cheek, falling against his leg, then curling under it. He froze and relaxed into the warmth of her palm. Slowly, he stroked the shortened hair on her head. He missed her longer locks, it didn’t matter, those would return and if they didn’t, it wasn’t what was innate. What he truly missed was her joy in life and loving. Quietly, ever so silently, he whispered words of love and affirmation to his sleeping beauty. Maybe she’d sense in her subconscious how much he cared.

******

I could hear words echoing in my sleep. It wasn’t from the movie, I identified the gentle play of horns and reeds dancing under the voice. The words were calling to me. Repeated phrases of love. Instances of times before, hints of what could still be. I laboriously climbed from the depths of dreams into reality, tears wet my face and the pillowcase. Turning my head, I looked up at my lover. He, too, was crying. He felt me move. Our eyes met and his arms scooped me off the couch onto his lap.

He nuzzled my face with his beard, wiping and combining our sorrow. My hands involuntarily reached out to touch him. Blue eyes stared into mine. I gulped, throwing my arms around his neck and stormily crying into his shoulder my fears. Disjointed words fell like stones in a calm lake. He rubbed my back, soothing my lonely girl. Eventually, I stopped. Tiny breaths stuttered and he held me closer. He continued to speak words of care and of my beauty. My headshaking negation made him angry. So, he kissed me fiercely. With all the longing of the past and hope for the future centered into one passionate kiss.

Startled, I mewled and melted under his lips. I had thought I wasn’t ready to be loved. My body said otherwise. I knew he’d stop if I asked, yet, I realized he needed me as much as I needed him. Recklessly, I straddled his lap, shoving away the pillow and blanket.  Something inside me said to try to give, I could once. Could I again? I’d been existing for so long in my sorrow. A sorrow which still claimed me, but if I didn’t remove my shirt, maybe I could give to him. I recalled a former lover who preferred me mostly dressed for intimacy and felt I could do that. He gathered himself to lift us both us and a giggle escaped. I’d lost weight through the treatments and ensuing depression, but I wasn’t going to let him hurt himself lifting me. I slid to my feet, surprised at the giggle and my thoughts.

Ever diligent, we strolled to our room turning off lights and locking doors. Moonlight was coming through the open shades on the large windows I’d insisted on for our room. Shadows gathered in the corners and I froze. He stood in front of me, caressing my bare arms lightly, kissing my neck and face and collarbone. I reached for his buckle and he stopped me. Confused, I was ready to withdraw again when he told me to wait. He led me to our bed and tugged down the down comforter, exposing the sheets. Gently, he pushed on me til I bounced on my ass. He knelt at my feet to remove my shoes and socks. He then took off his. I heard the tang of his belt buckle and the glint of the metal as he released it from his sexy hips. My heart clenched, he’d lost weight, too. I’d not noticed. Slowly, his jeans slid from his lean hip into a puddle of denim on the floor.

Fuck, I’d forgotten how gorgeous this man was. My fears of ugly were starting to rear up again. How could perfection want to couple with what I was? He took my limp hand, moving it to brush against his tenting underwear. I stared and bit my lip. He wanted me, was it just because any man will take any woman if they are hungry enough for sex? Lightly he toppled me onto the bed and proceeded to remove my leggings. I was bare underneath. I don’t wear panties with leggings, but I’d not shaved recently. I didn’t see a need because no one would touch me again. My pussy hair was sparse anyway from the chemo I’d gone through. He licked my inner thigh and nipped the flesh before licking again. Gently he nibbled to my center and tongued his way deep inside. I shivered in delight. He didn’t stop. I tugged his head closer and he lifted my ass in his arms. I screamed out and flooded his mouth with my cream. Leaving me limp, he stood again and removed the remainder of his clothes. In the moonlight he was godlike. I knew he was, even in sunshine, but I adored those compact muscles he kept hidden under work clothes. It only made me more determined to keep on my top, although, I didn’t close my eyes to his beauty.

He scooted me to the middle of the bed, flipped me to my tummy, and straddled me. I noticed he had some sort of bottle with him. He said it was an essential oil blend he’d purchased. It smelled soothing and sensual when he mixed it in his hands with the ever present carrier oil I kept nearby. He began rubbing my butt and up my back. He had to lift my shirt, but it wasn’t my front, so I didn’t care. He grumbled about the fabric and proceeded to rip if off. I had known it wasn’t one of my better tops, but I hadn’t realized it was that worn! The sound of the fabric tearing was almost liberating. I made a brief mental note to shop for more worn out t-shirts. I could feel his cock growing along my back as he reached for my shoulders. I moaned in delight and relaxed into his touch. I’d not done that since I’d had the chemo treatments and started to get ugly. With every fingerprint he left on my skin, he followed it with a kiss, telling me of my beauty. I was so relaxed when he finished with the back of my legs, I almost didn’t register he’d flipped me over again. My eyes flew open and I tried to grab the tattered tee to cover my deformed chest. He stopped me with kisses. I could feel his body on mine and cried for my missing nipples and breasts. He held my hands tight as he sat up. My eyes were closed again, my head turned away.

He asked me to look at him, I did so reluctantly. He poured oils on my broken body and massaged every scar and mark. He kissed me, making sure to not miss a single place. I hadn’t realized there were so many tears in a person, my cup of pain was tipping over and flooding our world. Once again, he was crying while he whispered words of loving care and desire into my flesh. Warming my soul with his firm workman’s hands.  My own were released to rest on his knees and thighs. He begged me to touch him and I did. His cock grew on my stomach and wept with us. I reached out one finger to taste the pearly drops and remembered how good he was.

He moved up my body to my face and, obediently, I sucked him inside my mouth. We moaned together as I rolled my tongue around his length and down to his balls and back. He thrust deep, I breathed through my nose, and took him. His scent filled my nostrils, overriding the oils he’d poured onto me. I grabbed his firm sexy ass and pulled him deeper. He cried out he wasn’t going to last this first time and grabbed his hard dick from my starving hole. With one quick twist, he came in my open mouth and on my cheeks and neck and chest. The glistening lines of his release didn’t drip from my titties, they lay in sexual calligraphy on my body. He slid down and slid his still hard cock into my empty cunt. I mewled in pleasure and we fucked. Over and over, he thrust himself into my body in every way we’d ever enjoyed. While he did, he reminded me of how much he loved every part of me, always. He held my legs upright, pressed tightly together so he could nip my ankles. His cock was held secure in the tight channel he’d made. Squealing at the bites, my pussy contracted and we came in a gush. Laughing a bit at the ensuing mess, he grabbed a nearby towel to put under us, together we pulled the comforter up over our sticky, cooling bodies.

Sated and loved, we lay in each other’s arms in the early morning moonlight. It had moved as had the shadows. They might return, but I’d taken the first steps to acceptance and at the moment, I was content, naked, and unafraid.

Rewrites

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I do not know whether many people realize how much more than is ever written there really is in a story—how many parts of it are never told—how much more really happened than there is in the book one holds in one’s hand and pores over. Stories are something like letters. When a letter is written, how often one remembers things omitted and says, “Ah, why did I not tell them that?” In writing a book one relates all that one remembers at the time, and if one told all that really happened perhaps the book would never end. Between the lines of every story there is another story, and that is one that is never heard and can only be guessed at by the people who are good at guessing. The person who writes the story may never know all of it, but sometimes he does and wishes he had the chance to begin again.” Frances Hodgson Burnett

I know this is a very long quote. Ms. Burnett wrote this for an author’s note in the book she’d written about Sara Crewe. It was a small story she had turned into a play and found so much more going on at Sara’s school than she ever imagined. She says of the characters, “They were as real as Sara, and it was careless of them not to come out of the story shadowland and say, “Here I am—tell about me.” But they did not—which was their fault and not mine. People who live in the story one is writing ought to come forward at the beginning and tap the writing person on the shoulder and say, “Hallo, what about me?” If they don’t, no one can be blamed but themselves and their slouching, idle ways.” F. H. Burnett

After the production of the play, her publisher asked if she’d rewrite the whole thing. She did, eventually releasing one of my favorite books into the world (all grown up) to make generations of new friends.

I love the relationship the Ms. Burnett has with her book. When I see authors doing a rewrite, it drives me crazy! Yet, I understand why they do it. I’m glad this particular wordsmith stopped editing and let it go before she killed it in her enthusiasm to get it right. I’m a fan of all of her works. She had a crazy life, was an American who loved England, and was all about rags to riches. Oddly, she was also insistent on making sure the class distinctions she blurred continued to exist in her writing.

She created Dickon, the one who made it possible for Colin to walk and Mary to regain health, but he was always a beloved gardener boy and the brother of one of the more Yorkshire of the servants. The Rat is rarely known as anything else, yet he invented the Game to put Marco and his dad on the throne, following them beyond the last page. Sara lived with poor abused Becky in the garret, but when Sara’s fortunes turned for the better, Becky was made Sara’s servant. Even little Cedric started out poor and continued to retain a wholesome American background in the world of Lords in England.

Her books make wonderful improbable read alouds to explain a previous way of life to a modern generation. Since it’s March, I’ll soon dive into the magical weaving of growth and life inside The Secret Garden. I almost always read it during spring break. Which is much more springlike in Oregon than Alaska!  (Except for the year the daffodils were buried in snow!)

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A Smidge of a Fairy Tale

I wrote this AGES ago. When a friend read it, he called it a fuck fest and enjoyed it. I’ll only post a bit more than the first page here (the clean part). It is my version of a Cinderella story. February is at an end. A month to celebrate love. A love of books, words, seasons, friends, people, and anything else you can imagine! This Monday was reputed to be Tell a Fairy Tale Day. It is now Wednesday, I’ll share a smidge of one anyway! Because I love words and stories and fairy tales. I don’t believe in the magical tales, but I love them just the same. (ending song from Youtube)

All Hallows Eve– Kris, (Northen Amethyst)

Cynarilla twirled giddily in the tiny room off the kitchen where she slept.

“Godfather, this is the most beautiful costume in the world!”

Her Godfather smiled lasciviously. The frosty white spider web lace over abbreviated lavender with onyx and amethyst accents down to the black crystal shoes was rather delicious paired with the mask in the darker hues. The silver tiara atop her golden tresses was really the crowning touch. Making the whole ensemble memorable, magical, and seductive. A large ghost pumpkin in the yard was transformed with a couple of pill bugs, a cricket, and a sleepy snake into a proper retinue for a princess heading to a ball. Cynarilla was loaded into the coach with admonitions echoing in her ears.

“You must remember to be home by midnight. Not fair, I know, but it is all the magic  I can spare on  All Hollow’s Eve. And a bit of a hint, the prince, isn’t exactly charming. He has a taste for….” His voice trailed off as he looked at his young creation.

Cynarilla giggled.

“Will he eat me, Godfather?”

The darkly handsome Godfather looked at the full moon and the feminine confection perched in the carriage and nodded a definite yes.

“He just might, Cynarilla, he just might. Nor would I blame him if he did.”

He reached up and kissed the young woman on her neck, leaving a glowing beauty mark on her heart vein.

The magical spark that ran through the girl with the kiss started the coach and they were off! As the coach flew over the frosty ground, Cynarilla thought about her Godfather’s words. Being forced to live as a lower maid subjected her to many experiences beyond those of the pampered daughter she had been. After her parents died and her aunt and cousins had moved in, she was moved to the scullery. There were only a couple of servants left from before and they had almost forgotten who she had been. If her Fairy Godfather hadn’t showed up one tearful teenage birthday eve, Cynarilla would have thought her future as anything but a servant was for naught. She decided she wouldn’t talk while she was at the ball. It might prove difficult, but she didn’t want her evening hampered by consequences. Or at least, not too many. She thought about the prince and hoped for a magical dream come true.

She arrived late, hidden from the announcing footmen in a mist which vanished as her crystal shoe touched the dance floor. The shimmering vision of the froth of lace and flesh piqued the interest of the jaded prince and the two waltzed off into the night.

As they danced, he whispered juicy tidbits about the notables in the ballroom. She giggled at his stories, quickly realizing the handsome prince and his two equally handsome friends were as heady a brew as the punch being served in delicate glass. She didn’t care. She was having the time of her life and she loved being taken care of by the three most adorable men in the kingdom as they tag teamed her for every dance and refreshment. When Cynarilla noticed the music fading and discovered she was in a private nook off the ballroom, she felt her heart flutter in anticipation. The prince took her hand and led her out into the night while his friends stood close by.

Gently, he cupped her masked face in his hands and touched her lips with his. It was if all the power of every one of her impotent daydreams poured into their kiss. She felt thunder in her veins and lightening sparked on her skin. Their bodies pressed against each other in hunger, their mouths opened, and their tongues darted between sharp teeth. Under the passion, Cynarilla heard bells, relentless and measured.

Midnight!

She wrenched herself away from the stunned prince and ran past his visibly startled friends to the outer stairwell. She raced to the driveway and her waiting coach, tumbling in and losing one of her beautiful shoes. The pill bug team left the castle in a haze of descending fog. The bells finished tolling and Cynarilla was left in a disheveled heap on the icy road in thrice mended rags halfway to her home. The critters scurried and slithered away at the sound of hoof beats. Scared into new terror, she scampered into the bushes as three horses galloped past the lone pumpkin on the frosty verge. A mute reminder of those consequences.

Cynarilla hugged her arms around herself and shivered. Stepping across the road she noticed a black crystal shoe and smiled. She quickly picked it up, thankful it hadn’t been broken in the melee, and tucked it into her apron pocket as a memory of the Prince’s All Hallows Eve Ball.

Hands (+18 in spots)

One of the times we flew north, I was taken with the man in front of me. He was well dressed and had a certain savoir faire. When we were ready to disembark, he stood to put his overcoat on. My eyes were on his hands. Mum said he winked at me. I missed it by watching those fingers buttoning up his coat.  One of my blogging friends wrote about a woman sitting on his face. (I have always been nervous about cunnilingus. Because I am so worried about hygiene. I love going down on a man, enjoy being tasted, but am always wary about the experience!) The part of his post which grabbed me, though, was when he was talking about his hands on a woman’s ass. Caressing and fondling. (True cause for palpitations!)

I love hands. Hands tell so much about a person. I like to imagine and know the stories they hold. At one of mum’s appointments, the physician’s assistant had tats on his palm and hand. (I assume they went up his arm, but he had on long sleeves) I’d have liked to hear why he had gotten them and what they meant. Tats are often found on hands. They can be simple or ornate, they generally have a meaning. It would be fun to learn to read palms, too. The scene in ‘Hello, Dolly!’ where Dolly finds Horace’s life line going up his arm always cracks me up!

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What a person does with their hands fascinates me. Hobbies, jobs, and ordinary living are all things you do with a hand or hands. (When Strider was small, he used to get into trouble and said it wasn’t his fault. It was his ‘Top guys.’ who did the deeds!) They are used to communicate and converse. Fingers manipulate keys, ingredients, and tools to create. Hands can become scarred by work and play. (Animals can be absolutely horrible when they interact with hands.) Hands come in all sizes and colors and shapes. They are beautiful!

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Mine are small. (Decades ago, I was sized for my wedding ring and the jeweler remembered me as ‘that little girl’) I will always remember this bizarre hand incident from my college days. I had been volunteering in a class of 3rd graders. We did an exercise where we put all our hands in the center of the group. The kids did and asked me where mine were. I had to wiggle them, they looked exactly like most of the ones in the circle! My hands are older now, they’d not be camouflaged by littles again. (Phew!) I keep my nails short because the few times I had fancy ones, they looked a tad out of place! (they were also a pain cuz I could not work them in a garden or when kneading dough) I sometimes paint them, but I paint the toes more frequently. (toes don’t get used as often!) I’ve not painted my fingernails but once after I started caretaking. When I wear gloves to remove mum’s fittings, somehow the solvent to get the paste off comes through and the paint comes off my fingers into the gloves! (Yuck!) I did buy a pack of crayons. The next time I sit with small ones in a church service, I’ll have them color my nails.

I love to entwine my fingers with another person, I enjoy lightly stroking the back of my finger on a wrist, and feeling the tracing of a finger on the palm of my hand drives me crazy! They are a sensual part of our body. They can love and hurt in equal measure. They can help and give and take. An open hand is an invitation.

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I extend my hand to you and thank you for following me on my obscure and crazy journeys. From across the way, may you feel my fingers touch you and tell you how important you are. They may brush over your arm or shoulder like butterflies to say  hello and acknowledge you. They may reach out to hold yours as we close our eyes and draw strength and companionship in hard times. They may touch your face and travel to your neck softly, saying I care. (If this is too creepy, you can stop at the first sentence in the paragraph and if my hands do anything else, please contact me and let me know!)

(photos all from WP free photo library)

An Excerpt from ages past

While perusing stuff I’d written, I ran across a cheating couple story.  I don’t think I’ve posted it before…I hope I haven’t! I put things in here all mushed together, I have no idea what I’ve shared and what I haven’t!!  I was going to post just a bit of it, but it isn’t very long. If this topic offends you, don’t read it. Otherwise, enjoy it as you wish. No sex, just wanting.

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‘We have no right.’

They hadn’t seen each other in years. They had been super good friends. Friends with a tinge of desire, but they both knew nothing should happen. Yet, when they met again, it was as if they were in a suspended moment.

She answered the phone.

“Hi,” came the deep response to her own hello.

“Omigosh! How are you? Where are you? I haven’t heard from you in forever!” Her excitement thrilled through the wires and he grinned. He enjoyed calling this friend, she was always so enthusiastic. She made him feel he could accomplish anything.

“Actually, I’m fine, and I am outside your house.”

She paused briefly and then threw all caution to the wind. She had just taken a bath and was fragrant and still unclothed.

“Let me toss something on. Just walk in, the back door isn’t locked.”

Sending him to the back would give her time to scramble into a top and a skirt. She was too excited for anything else. She had wanted this friend for years, she still did. She enjoyed being around him.

She heard him come in and met him in the hallway where she jumped on her tall friend in a huge hug. She buried her face in his shoulder and kissed his neck. His hug tightened as her arms gripped him. Their faces pulled away and they gazed at each other.

“I’ve missed you.” They said in stereo.

Together, they started laughing and she slid down his body to the floor. Their hands kept hold of each other. She stepped forward and hugged him again. His arms folded around her gently. She remembered how careful he was when they had hugged before. One arm only. She nuzzled his crisp ironed shirt along the buttons and breathed in his scent. The stood like that for a minute or more.

She gently moved back and grabbed his hand.

”Let’s go and sit down and you can tell me what you are doing back.”

He allowed her to lead him to the living room and to the couch. He hesitated, but she pushed him down.

“Just sit!” she laughed at him. “Your shoes are fine and I do own a vacuum.”

She curled up next to his arm and stared into his eyes.

“So, talk.”

He did. He prattled on about his job and coming back home and his family. It was stuff he could have emailed or phoned her about, but she was glad he was sharing in person. She had missed him so much. Slowly her hand came up to smooth the beard on the side of his face.  He stopped talking and took her hand down with his.

“We have no right,” he said quietly.

“But, perhaps we do.” She responded, just as softly, after a second.

“Perhaps, in another time, another life, we did belong to each other. Perhaps our life forces recognize that and have been trying to remind us in our present world.”

He closed his eyes at her words and swallowed. He opened them again, there was a pain and longing in the depths, wrenching her heart and causing moisture to gather between her legs.

“I have always wanted you. I don’t care you are a few years older. I’ve tried to imagine you as my big sister, making you even more off limits than you already are. I’ve rationalized being with you safely. Just to be with you. No matter how long we have been apart, hearing your voice makes me happy in my soul. Seeing your smile and getting one of your hugs, thrills me to my bones.” He smiled and added, ”Bones that want to ignore any consequences and jump you, because those bones are also thrilled to see you in a braless tank top. Like the ones you constantly teased me with.”

She grinned up at him and cuddled closer to his arm, which snaked out from between them and around her. His eyes were still on hers as she nestled into him. He dropped her hand onto his leg and brought his up to cup her face.

“We have no right.” He whispered as he bent his head to kiss her parted lips.

And they gave themselves to each other, completely. In the living room, where family photos hung on the walls.

Christmas Horror Stories to Enjoy

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1900’s German Christmas Card

One of my favorite authors also does editing. One of his pets is/are/oh, bother!….. Michael edits horror anthologies about Christmas. I know there are 3, with another in the works. I know Christmas is officially over, I wanted to pass these on anyway! Each anthology holds startling gems you cannot forget. Trees covered with beautiful parasitic killing spiders, trees that take over your entire house and gain their nutrition from other living things, people who end up becoming evil decorations, décor which kills or absorbs people into them (one of the more haunting stories is about a stone nativity and a little boy who wishes his parents had everything they wanted….he ends up a small shepherd boy. His father helps put him away after the season is over.). There are slashing horror pieces and ones that cause you to shiver in delightful fear. Krampus, of course, is a larger than life character in many of these. A Krampus who is a true Christmas terror and not the creepy dude created by Hollywood.

I don’t often read and rarely watch scary stuff. (I love old Hitchcock movies. ‘Rear Window’ is absolutely wonderfully great!) Grinning Skull Press is slowly changing my mind, though. (I had a bad experience with the book Amityville Horror as a teen…..) Hal Bodnerhas written one of the best vampire characters I’ve ever read (he writes in the Deathlehem books, but those are about other people..I’m sure he has a story in one of those, but I can’t find it!!). Michael also writes for the anthologies, he tries to disguise himself (and does a very good job!).  He explains his reasons for creating this series in the books. Christmas has become one of his least favorite holidays of the year. (I made him a zombie like angel to help him over the weeks from Halloween to the 25th of December) If you get a chance to purchase one of his books, it will help make him feel better! Below are the first and last ones I’ve read. Fun stuff!!! (SQUEEE, I just saw the last one is out!!! Cannot wait to get a gift card to purchase this next one.)

The funniest thing, I almost NEVER read these books at Christmas, I usually get them and save them for my birthday in February!

Noun to Verb

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I love words. The way they roll on the tongue, create pictures when they are strung together, and how they have different definitions. One of my favorite classes in college was semantics. I was always miffed I never had the chance to take Latin (I know, now I can, but I’m lazy when looking at doing things all by myself!).

I was sent a word today by The Craftsman. He’s never used this word in relation to me before and it was odd. However, it did spark an interest in finding out more about the 5 letters!!! I looked at urban dictionaries and dictionary.com and I think Webster’s. It has been a great deal of fun and I wanted to share it.

The sentence began ‘Good morning lover..’ Good is relative, morning is pretty self-explanatory. I wanted to learn more about the word ‘lover’. I’ve always thought this was a verb. It isn’t!!!!!! I did discover it is an antonym of hate, which makes sense. Most urban examples used the word ‘lover’ as a sexual term and a noun. However, it can also be used as a plural noun. As in the instance of two persons involved in a love affair. I did laugh out loud when I read ‘lover’ is sometimes confused with ‘louver’ or ‘Louvre’. Three words which are spelled completely different AND pronounced completely different. I reckon spell check has a lot to do with that.

‘Lover’ has 4 different definitions. (1) A person who is in love with another. (2) A person with one whom conducts an extramarital affair. (3) A person who has a strong enjoyment or liking for something—music, cats, ect. And (4) A person who loves; a person who shows affection and regard for others. I still felt there was something missing. ‘Lover’ seems so verb like!

Grammar rules abound on verbs, so I skipped around to find what I was looking for. A verb is the word which reveals what is happening in the sentence. A word which can be action or stative finally brought me to where I was thinking about heading.  Oddly, a word can be both of these or one of them. Action is when the word does something, stative is when the word is an ongoing condition or statement. I see ‘lover’ as both of those.  Harkening to the definitions 1, 3, and 4, ‘lover’ is a word that is doing something and a word which is ongoing.

When you are a lover ‘in love’ you end up being song fodder. Hopefully, not a country one. Those lovers end up killing or dying or turning into drunken sods. 80’s lovers in lyric ended up having fun, being stalked, or in romantic ballads (mmmm, ‘Slow Hands’…). All action. A lover who has a strong attachment and liking for something is also action. If you are a lover of animals, you might just end up volunteering in a shelter somehow. If you love Sci-Fi, you might discover you are an author or end up being a Fire Fly fan. If you are a lover of a person, you will probably do all you can to spend time with that person. Again, action. If you are a person who loves is definitely of action. Princess Di was a woman who showed affection and regard for others. She portrayed that over and over in who she reached out to and what she did.

I’m not entirely sure which of the 3 definitions The Craftsman was referring to, most likely it was the first one. I do know the text was NOT telling me he was fond of needing to fix the louvers at the Louvre because of early sunshine!!!

Video from YouTube—

Wondering who

IMG_9616 - Copy I am the sea spray clinging to metal, making rust.

I am the diet soda full of flavor and fun and falsely sweet.

I am the puncture, slowly making tires flat.

I am the discord in the piano keys stuck fast.

I am the cell changing others, creating sickness.

I am the cat soft and purry, with a vicious scratch.

I am the serpent in the garden, indolent and dangerous.

I am the rumor, soulless and spreading.

I am the ants inside the flower you brought in the house.

I am deception under a glossy veneer of goodness.

I am the worm inside the delicious fruit.

Am I? I am.

 

Over and over, I see this happening in my life. Yes, I do things which are considered good. Yet, in the end, the apple is thrown away and the music sucks. I thought I could be someone different. I have changed in some ways, but in the end, I am still myself and it doesn’t matter anymore. The saying about not being able to change spots is true. I can appear to grow and perhaps the edges are polished a bit more, yet, the end result is still warped. I exist for others, it is my place. There is little joy in the service, it is a duty. I won’t shirk it. I’m not the sort who does. I do, however, need to remember to avoid the relational parts in my service. The parts when I try to add interest to what I am. Every time I reach out and embrace others, I destroy them. The rock of self needs to remain steadfast and alone in the box. It is sort of funny. I actually LIKE people. I’m just bad for them.

Granted, these are my perceptions and not really important. Quirky posts are more fun to write and this sort of drivel belongs in my journal, but I don’t care anymore.