Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Poetry Thursday

This week's prompt for Poetry Thursday was poetry to go. The idea was to create a heightened awareness of poetry by making a copy of a poem and carrying it with you through the week. I've been carrying a poem around with me in my head all week and it's been speaking to me for all sorts of reasons. It's by a poet named Ai, and I first found it at Very Like A Whale.

Grandfather Says

"Sit in my hand."
I'm ten.
I can't see him,
but I hear him breathing
in the dark.
It's after dinner playtime.
We're outside,
hidden by trees and shrubbery.
He calls it hide-and-seek,
but only my little sister seeks us
as we hide
and she can't find us,
as grandfather picks me up
and rubs his hands between my legs.
I only feel a vague stirring
at the edge of my consciousness.
I don't know what it is,
but I like it.
It gives me pleasure
that I can't identify.
It's not like eating candy,
but it's just as bad,
because I had to lie to grandmother
when she asked,
"What do you do out there?"
"Where?" I answered.
Then I said, "Oh, play hide-and-seek."
She looked hard at me,
then she said, "That was the last time.
I'm stopping that game."
So it ended and I forgot.
Ten years passed, thirtyfive,
when I began to reconstruct the past.
When I asked myself
why I was attracted to men who disgusted me
I traveled back through time
to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life
I thought was gone,
but it had only sunk from view
into the quicksand of my mind.
It was pulling me down
and there I found grandfather waiting,
his hand outstretched to lift me up,
naked and wet
where he rubbed me.
"I'll do anything for you," he whispered,
"but let you go."
And I cried, "Yes," then "No."
"I don't understand how you can do this to me.
I'm only ten years old,"
and he said, "That's old enough to know."

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

A few things

I'll be at work most of tomorrow so here a few things with which to amuse yourselves. Enjoy.

1) The short fiction contest at Clarity of Night has ended but voting is now open for the Reader's Choice Award. If you haven't already, head on over and read all of the great stories that were submitted and tell Jason which one is your favorite. And while you're at it, tell him what a great guy he is for doing all of this in the first place.

2) Scott's story, "Damned Carnival", is up at Make sure you take a second to read it and then head over to his blog and tell him what hot stuff he is.

3) After that, head over to Flood's blog and check out Justin's interview if you haven't already. He is an incredibly talented poet, despite the title of his blog.

4) Remember I got that editing gig a while back? Flash Me is still looking for submissions for the next issue. The guidelines are here. They are open to any genre, any style of writing, and while they're not paying the big bucks yet, they are publishing a lot of talented writers. And submissions are judged blind, so don't go sending me boxes of chocolates or anything. Unless you really want to. In which case, I'm particularly fond of Dove milk chocolates.

5) Quinn is also looking for submissions for The Project for a New Mythology. He's publishing some really great stuff so if you have something to submit, head on over. You know you want to.

6) Chad has posted an interview with Kyle Minor that's full of great writing advice. After you're done reading it, root around in Chad's archives for a while and just generally terrorize him. At least, that's what I do whenever I go over there.

7) And if none of these things strikes your fancy, there's always this.

Alright, now go play. And remember, it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Things you can tell just by looking at her

I've never liked having my picture taken. Ever since I was a little girl, I've dreaded the sight of a camera. I don't like the exposure, the vulnerability that a photograph creates. Lately, I've been taking pictures of myself, trying to capture the different angles and lines of my face. Every one is a different moment, a different version of myself. These pictures are clues, pieces of the puzzle. I've been fitting them together, shifting, rearranging, looking for the one that will complete the image.

I was not a beautiful child. I was not the little girl that everyone adored, the one whose smile could light up a room. Instead, I was the ugly duckling, struggling for a place among the swans. I used to envy those girls I went to school with, the ones who moved in packs, the ones who were blessed with a careless beauty. These were the girls I wanted to be, the ones with perfect skin and the tennis tans and the easy smiles. The same girls who punished the rest of us for not being like them. Their beauty blinded us to what they were like on the inside, a perfect sleight of hand. The older I get, the more comfortable I've become in this skin but there are still moments of doubt, moments when I become that little girl again.

This is what I see reflected in the mirror every day. I have lived with it for almost twenty-eight years but there are still moments when it seems strange to me, unrecognizable. When I look at this face, I see my father's nose and my mother's cheekbones. I see fine lines creeping in around the eyes, deeper ones around the mouth from years of laughing. I see the freckles that only come out in the summer, the scar that came from scratching at chicken pox. I wonder what others see when they look at this face, if they see beauty or something less remarkable.

A photograph can only tell you so much. It can't tell you what the sound of my laugh is like or the way my hands move when I talk. It can't tell you how I touch my hair when I'm nervous or that I have a habit of biting my lower lip. It can't tell you what I look like when I'm angry or sad or in love. It can't tell you what I dream of, what I'm afraid of, what my insecurities are. It can't tell you who I am. In the end, it doesn't matter what others see, so long as I don't lose sight of myself. I know that there is beauty there, that if I look hard enough, eventually I'll find it.

Oh, my head

Since I'm way too hungover to write something remotely interesting, I suggest you all head over to Flood's blog and read her interview with Justin Evans of Untalented Writer. He is an absolutely awesome rock star poet and you should all go over and bask in the greatness that is him. I, meanwhile, will be asking myself again why I didn't just go straight home after work last night. Although the high point of the evening had to be when three guys I know almost drowned because they thought it would be cool to go swimming at three in the morning after drinking for four hours. This, of course, was before the sharks showed up. Really, I'm getting too old for this.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

At least I'm not operating heavy machinery

In a fit of Nyquil-induced hysteria, I sent in my entry for the Lonely Moon contest. If you want to feel like a better writer, click here. After you've recovered from your laughing fit, be sure to check out some of the other great stories posted there. Flood, Fringes, Scott, Jaye, Jim, Jeff, Rand, Rob, and Mr. Schprock are all setting the bar pretty high. You still have until Tuesday, August 29th so knock back a bottle of Nyquil and get writing, why don't you?

Friday, August 25, 2006


I'm sick.

I want my mommy.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in bed, hiding out under the covers and trying not to hack up a lung.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

What I choose

I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. I choose to risk my significance, to live so that which came to me as seed goes to the next as blossom, and that which came to me as blossom, goes on as fruit.

--Dawna Markova

These words found me today when I least expected it. The universe has been speaking to me for a while now but only recently have I started paying attention. Lately, I've been seeing visions in the strangest places. I see them in the clouds, mountains rising into the sky. I see them in the faces of strangers, in the face in the mirror. This world is full of beauty, you just have to look for it. You have to be willing to dig, to get your hands dirty. Beauty is not something you can make; it's something that happens to you when you least expect it. Something you find when you didn't even know you were looking.

I am making an effort to hope. To believe. To dream. I want to run barefoot through a field of purple, in a paper-thin dress with the sun on my shoulders. I want to hear music and know that the notes, the rhythm, come from inside my own heart. I want to tell stories, to release these words and know that there will be more. That there will always be more. This is my work. I've been fighting it, telling myself it was not what I wanted. Only now do I see that there was never any choice in it.

In the library, I overheard a mother tell her child Walk, don't run. What she meant was: Be careful, there could be danger here. There is danger in everything but there is possibility too. The thing I thought I wanted, the thing I thought I'd lost, is within my reach. And now I don't quite know what to do with it. I hold it in my hand, watching it sparkle. I think of the mother, urging her child to be careful. This is advice I can use. I will walk, slowly, cautiously, taking small steps. But inside, I am running, running, running.

August is nearly over; the summer is dying a slow death, drawing out its last damp breaths. I'm sad to see it go but I'm ready for the change. In another month, the air will be crisp, the days shorter, cooler. Soon, I will turn 28. I'm ready to say goodbye to 27, to this last year of uncertainty. I'm just now beginning to find myself, to make up for lost time. Better late than never. I've been sad for too long, for the wrong reasons. There is no room for sadness; there can only be joy, even if I have to make it myself. I've lost the instructions; maybe I never had them to begin with. No matter. This is work I can do. I will not die an unlived life, no. I want to become the wing, the torch, the seed, the blossom. To bear this fruit again and again, for as many seasons as I can.

Monday, August 21, 2006

"Lonely Moon" Short Fiction Contest

Jason Evans at Clarity of Night is hosting another short fiction contest, this time in conjunction with Anne Frasier whose new novel Pale Immortal comes out September 5th. The theme this time is "Lonely Moon" and the contest is for short fiction, 250 words or less, due by 11:00 pm on Tuesday, August 29th. This is the third contest Jason's held so far and they only seem to be getting better and better. Even if you don't write fiction, this is a great chance to read some really good writing and to get to know some new bloggers you might not have heard of otherwise. For more details, click here. Come on, you know you want to. And if you all go check it out, I promise I'll shut up about the unparalleled greatness of the Yankees.

I've got to say it again...


Let's dance

When I was a little girl, my mother decided I should be a dancer. She drove me over to the local dance school and signed me up for ballet and tap classes, convinced that I was going to be a star. I should mention that around this time, "White Nights" was her favorite movie. She had the teensiest crush on Mikhail Baryshnikov, hence, her newfound passion for ballet.

Like most little girls, I'd entertained thoughts of being a ballerina. The leotards, the tutus, those cute little shoes with the ribbons. I remember being disappointed when my mother took me shopping for my ballet shoes. I wanted the pointed ones that laced up my legs like the real dancers wore. I hated the soft-soled pink slip-ons she bought and I never did get to wear a tutu.

Every Tuesday night, I'd take my position at the bar with the other little girls and we'd practice the five basic positions. When I think back on it, this was really all we ever did. After a while, we'd all get bored and run around, practicing our own version of ballet, which usually meant us hopping around with our arms in the air. The teachers never tried to stop us. Apparently, the study of ballet doesn't teach one how to deal with a room full of unruly five-year-olds.

After a half an hour or so of that, we'd head down the hall for tap class. (What can I say, she really liked Gregory Hines in that movie too.) I wasn't much better at tap than I was at ballet but there was one thing that made it bearable: the shoes. I loved my tap shoes, black patent leather so shiny I could see myself in them. And I loved the sound they made, that clack-clacking against the hardwood floors. I used to wear them home and walk all over the house in them, driving my mother crazy.

Eventually, I lost interest and stopped going. It turns out I wasn't meant to be a ballerina after all, nor was I going to be tap-tapping my way onto Broadway anytime soon. It wasn't until I got older that I realized that I possess no natural rhythm whatsoever. I was in college before I realized that I look like this when I dance. Sadly, my friends were apparently too embarrassed or bitchy to tell me.

Despite the fact that I move like a spastic chicken, I still love to dance, although I usually only do it when I'm home. Alone. With the blinds drawn. There's something so completely freeing in just letting your body move however it will. There are certain songs, that when I hear them, I have to move, no matter how silly I look. Dancing in itself is a particular kind of joy and it's not one I ever intend to give up. I plan to still be shaking it when I'm 80, artifical hip be damned.

So tell me, what makes you want to get up and dance?

Saturday, August 19, 2006

At the risk of someone sending me hate mail.... about those Yankees? They're really taking it to 'em in Boston.

Of course, this likely means they'll drop the next two games but hey, I gotta talk some smack while I can.

Thursday, August 17, 2006


I am a clock that is slowly winding down. There is a glitch in the machinery, the gears are beginning to stick. I need to be taken apart, to have the pieces of myself laid out on the workbench. The springs need tightening, the coils need cleaning. I want to speed up, go faster. To hum, instead of this awful sputtering.

Tonight, I stood alone in a parking lot, crying. A car passed and I hid my face, ashamed at my tears, my weakness. I don't want to be that girl anymore. I want to be the girl who smiles, the girl who sings. The girl who knows her own strength.

I want to be undone.

I want to start over, to be poured into the mold and made new. I want to be reborn, to sit up, blinking and amazed at the sight of the world. My steps will be shaky but I will relearn them, better, more certain than before. I will be stronger, faster, smarter. I will not be so careless, so reckless.

I want to be the Tin Man, to be a handed a new heart, shining and perfect. I want to hold it to my ear and listen to it tick. To know that this one will not fail me, that this one has no memory of pain. The things you do for love are always the things you regret most, and longest. This is the lesson I've learned.

I am trying to be different. I am trying to transform, to make myself better. There are flaws, cracks along the seams that are in need of mending. On the surface, they seem shallow, harmless, but these fissures run deep. I am trying to fix them, to seal the breaks as best I can. To repair the damage before it's too late. I have the tools; all I need now is time.

**To all of you who continue to read these melancholy posts, and to suffer my moods...

Thank you.

Poetry Thursday

This week's theme for Poetry Thursday is....whatever the heck you want. So, another random poem, this one by Marge Piercy. In a way, this poem is sort of about what I want, does that count?

For the Young Who Want To

Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.

The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms

is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.

The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

This year will be different

Growing up, I was one of those kids who actually looked forward to the first day of school. As much as I loved summer and those endless days, the first day of school was exciting. New classroom, new teachers, new desk, new books. It was a chance to start fresh, a clean slate. Even now, I still get a little giddy whenever I walk down the school supplies aisle in stores. Notebooks filled with clean white sheets, the rubbery scent of erasers, rows of yellow pencils. It all speaks to promise, to possiblity.

I started kindergarten when I was four, the youngest in my class. My mother had already taught me to read and write and she thought it would be a waste for me to wait another year. I don't remember much about the first day, other than there were parents and kids everywhere, and that my mother cried when she dropped me off. It was all a blur of colors and sounds and faces that I didn't recognize, but I wasn't scared. This, to me, was an adventure, like anything else.

That first day was perfect because there was so much I didn't know. I didn't know that elementary school would be a series of small cruelties, humiliations. I didn't know that I would never fit in, that I would always be the standout, the odd one. I didn't know that eventually, school would come to symbolize every dread, every fear, every doubt I had about myself. I learned many things in those years but most of all, I learned what it was to be ashamed, embarrassed, hurt.

The last day of school was always like a holiday, a nervous energy buzzing through the halls. We handed in our books, cleaned out our desks, our lockers. The walls were stripped down to bare white, all of the signs and billboards packed away for another year. The teachers always on edge, wanting to get through this last day, just as excited as the rest of us. Everyone waiting for that final bell, that final run to freedom. For me, there was always a feeling of relief and sadness. Relief that the year was over, that I had a break from the cruelty of my classmates. Sadness that it would only last a few brief months.

Every September, I told myself this year will be different, but I was always disappointed. Eventually, I changed schools, started over in a new city, a new state. I left behind the kids who had teased me but I still remember their words, their faces, even now. I don't know if I'll ever have kids of my own. If someday I should, I hope their school experiences will be better than mine. I hope that they don't inherit my shyness, my awkwardness. That they will be accepted in a way that I wasn't, that they'll never know the kind of hurt I experienced. That for them, it really will be different.

Monday, August 14, 2006

On writing

Lately, I've been thinking about writing, turning the idea of it over in my head. I've been thinking about why I do it, what I hope to get out of it. What I like best about writing is the idea that I'm creating something real, using words to spin webs of emotion, feeling. But what do I want to get out of writing? What's my purpose in doing it? Where do I think it will take me? These are the harder questions, the one whose answers are less obvious.

I went out today in search of inspiration. I thought that if I looked hard enough, I'd be able to track it down somehow, that it would be something tangible. I went to the bookstore and roamed the aisles, studying the different books. All of them evidence that it can be done. I walked through the bargain section, wondering why these books were different, why they didn't make it. Is it enough to have a written a book or does it have to be a success to count?

Why do I write? I do it in part to get certain thoughts out of my head. I do it to see what I can do with words, how far I can push myself. Mostly, I do it because I have to. I can put it off but I always come back to it in the end; there is no leaving it for good. All these months I've considered it practice for something else, but what? There are so many books, so many stories out there already. What can I add to this history?

Tonight, I read through my journals, my notebooks, sifting through the words for a seed, a spark. There are bits and pieces of poems, stories, essays, lines scribbled in the margins whose meaning escapes me now. Much of it seems strange, alien to me, as if someone else wrote it. This unfamiliarity should bother me but it doesn't. I like reading something I've written and not being able to recognize it as my own. That, to me, is writing in its purest form. It's writing that comes directly from the heart without the interruption of the critical mind. It's the flow, the movement, the rhythm, like music. This is what I love, writing in a trance, letting the words come as they will.

What is the story I'm meant to tell? And is there, can there be, more than one? Is this even possible? The answer, without any hesitation, is yes. There is no room for maybe, no room for what if. I need to, have to, write this book, my book. I will not be able to let it go until I do. I have the will; all I need now are the words. I'm searching for an idea, the one that I'll fall so in love with that I'll be afraid to share it for fear it will disappear. I'm turning over stones and sifting through the wreckage, looking for truth. And I know, that somewhere, I'll find it.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

All I want to do.... sleep. I am so tired. There will be more words later when I can hold my head up long enough to write them.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

How to save a life

This is what the sky looks like tonight, a deep bruised purple threaded with silver. Every so often, there's a burst of light and the world is reversed, black trees against a white sky. A negative of itself. I can hear thunder, rumbling, moving, but no rain, not yet. The storm is patient, waiting for the right moment to break.

For weeks, I haven't been able to eat, sleep, concentrate. The world became a landscape of softened edges, faces blurred like wet glass. Slowly, my appetite is returning, I am returning, to that other self, the one I thought had disappeared for good. Tonight I caught sight of that girl, reflected in a window, and the familiar thought returned: Who are you? Where are you going? These are questions I still don't have the answers for but I'm searching, lingering in doorways and losing myself on unfamiliar streets.

My heart's been broken. It hurts but I'm healing. Earlier, in the grocery store, a stranger smiled at me and I felt myself smiling back. I am not the girl who smiles; I am the one who looks away, the one who won't meet your eyes but this time, I did. And just like that, I knew that it, love, was still possible.

I took the long way home, driving with the windows down, eyes turned toward the sky. I could hear the cicadas humming in the tall grass, their high keening chirrup. A familiar song came on the radio and I found myself singing along. Even through the pain, I'm still able to sing. I drove past a house that seemed to glow, soft yellow light pouring out into the night. Cars lined both sides of the street; it looked like a party, some sort of celebration. Something happy, I hoped. Something happy.

These moments may seem insignificant, but to me, the small moments are where life happens. The small moments are possiblity, promise, hope; they prepare you for the bigger things to come. I may never write a novel and that's okay. I may never publish another story or poem and that's okay too. I'll continue to look for, to live, in these small moments, and to share them, with you. These words are a record of sorts, proof that I was here, that I lived, loved, hurt, healed. And that above all, I didn't give up.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Poetry Thursday

This week's theme for Poetry Thursday is unfinished conversations, all the things you would have said, should have said, but didn't. Since I'm feeling rather speechless myself this week, I give you this poem by Adrienne Rich. It's a little long but well worth the read.

Cartographies of Silence

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Here's the wall

And I've hit it. It just came up out of nowhere and I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I've let myself get distracted by the wrong things. Maybe I've been writing too much, or not enough. Maybe I've just run out of ideas. But it's there, in front of me, and I can't seem to get past it.

I don't consider myself to be a "good" writer. I don't consider myself to be a writer at all. What I am is a person who writes but even this I'm beginning to doubt, second-guess. It seems every word I write is dead on the page. There's no life, no spark, to any of it and I'm wondering what's causing it, why I've suddenly flatlined. It feels as if my brain has completely shut down, as if I'm slowly deflating, crumpling into nothing. I used to find inspiration in the smallest things but now it seems I'm moving on autopilot, my eyes closed to the world.

I know that everyone goes through dry spells, patches of desert where it seems there's no end in sight. I know that eventually, it will pass. That I'll come stumbling out of the wilderness, pushing through the branches wild-eyed, bits of leaves stuck in my hair. There's always a way out of the maze; I just have to find it. If I have to take this wall down brick by brick, scraping my hands raw in the process, then so be it. In the meantime, feel free to leave me some inspiration in the comments.


I still got it.

Just wanted to tell someone that.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

On the beach

I remember one of the last days we spent together. It was a Sunday afternoon; we decided to go to the beach. It was early May, not really hot yet, the water was still cold. You didn't want to go in; you were perfectly happy to sit on the shore and read but not me. I had to go in, had to show you that I wasn't afraid. That I could still take risks.

I walked out into the water and stood, letting the waves push against my legs. It was cold and the salt stung but I couldn't, wouldn't, turn back. I let it push me, pull me, further out, until the water was slapping against my hips and my teeth were chattering. It was a little frightening, thinking about the power of those waves. How if you kept going, they would just take you away. You could disappear, erased, as if you'd never been there at all.

I looked back at you on the shore and waved. You were there, in your chair, with your book. You didn't notice how far I'd gone, how I'd been moving away from you, slowly, for months. I thought about what would happen if the waves took me too far. Would you try to save me, rescue me? Would I even want you to? I came out of the water, shivering, lips blue, and waited for the sun to warm me. From the shore, the ocean looked calm, safe, but I knew otherwise.

As we were leaving, I looked down and noticed dozens of tiny holes, tunnels dug into the sand. You told me they were made by crabs, burrowing themselves in with tiny claws, and I envied their determination. I thought about how the ocean and the beach and the wind had been in existence for millions of years. How before there was humanity and all of its problems, there was this. How through it all, the crabs had continued their cycle of living and digging and dying, knowing nothing of love or happiness.

I decided then that I wouldn't be like the crabs, burying my head in the sand. I decided that I wouldn't live without love or happiness anymore. The wind changed, and I could feel it then, how things were different. How I was different and I knew, you could feel it too. We walked back towards the car, heads down, lost in thought. And every step that brought us closer, took me further away from you.

Friday, August 04, 2006


It's hot outside, the kind of heat that makes you dream of snow drifts and frost on the windowpanes. The kind of heat that makes you afraid to leave the house for fear of melting, disappearing. The kind of heat that makes it too hot to move, to do anything except wait for it to pass.

A few days ago, I decided to brave it, to go out into the world. I went downtown, where it was hottest, and set about getting lost. I walked around for hours, taking pictures and watching the tourists spend their money. I eavesdropped on their conversations, listened to them complain about the heat, the streets, the distance from here to there. It's really not so far, I wanted to say, not if you know the way.

In the park, I watched a man feeding the ducks, calling to them as if they would answer. I took pictures of oak trees, their branches bent to the ground from the weight. I walked past all the old houses, the ones that had survived war, storms, and worse, getting drunk off the scent of fresh-cut grass. I could smell the sweet scent of the horses as they trundled past, a heavy mix of sweat and fresh hay. I came across some kids playing in a fountain and I wanted to run and jump in with them but I didn't. Too old for that, I thought, and now I wonder what was stopping me. What else I'm getting too old for.

I walked the length of the city, end to end, seeking out those places I'd never noticed before. I felt the soles of my shoes sticking to the pavement, each step more effort than the last, but I kept going. At the end of every street, there was another, and another, and I wanted to walk them all. On the sidewalk, I found a revelation scribbled into the cement. All you need is love. Yes, I thought. This is all.

I walked back to the car, red-faced and sweaty, dizzied from the journey. I drove home with the windows rolled down, the breeze whipping my hair up off my shoulders. When I told a friend what I'd done, they couldn't believe it. Don't you know how hot it is? This weather isn't made for walking around like that.

She was right. This weather is made for stretching out in the sand, watching the motion of the waves as they break against the shore. It's made for lying in bed at two in the afternoon in just your underwear while the air conditioner rattles in the window. It's made for eating ice cream on the back porch at sunset. For running through the sprinklers. For flip-flops and glasses of iced tea and afternoon thunderstorms. And most of all, for love. All you need is love.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Flashes of Speculation

Jim, over at Writer's Blog, has started a new site called Flashes of Speculation that's dedicated to publishing flash fiction in the following genres: science fiction, fantasy, horror fiction, supernatural fiction, alternate history, and magical realism. If you write flash fiction in any of these genres and are interested in submitting, the guidelines are here. Even if you don't write in these genres, you should head over and check out all the great stories being posted there. And if you want to be supercool, you can put up a link on your blog to show your support. And we all want to be supercool, don't we?

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Yeaaahhhhh, I'm gonna need you to come in on Saturday

Because I have to work all day and I know some of you also have mind-numbingly boring jobs, I've got a little treat for you today. I now present:

Office Space, bunny-style.*


*If you're at said job, I would recommend saving this for later. The bunnies aren't exactly PG-13.

**And I promise later I'll actually have something for you to read since this is supposed to a writing blog for Christ's sake.

More pictures

I wanted to run and jump in with these kids, they looked like they were having so much fun.
Our new bridge, which cost a bazillion dollars. Pretty fancy stuff.
Another fountain I wanted to jump in.
Looking out on the harbor.
Sidewalk graffiti.
Animal cruelty. Otherwise known as one of those things tourists do. I wanted to tell them all to get their fat asses out and walk.
More views of the harbor.
Houses on the Battery.
I have more pictures but Blogger doesn't seem to be cooperating. Hopefully I'll get them posted sometime today. And if anyone's curious, it was so hot my shoes were melting into the sidewalk while I was out taking these. But that's how much I love you all.