3rd Short Story Snippet...

A dry, papery hand, furrowed with age and lined with heavy regrets lightly held two small reminders: a Zona Black eye pencil and a small, antique brass powder compact. The old woman’s eyes were cloudy with age, but her memory was painfully sharp. She looked out the window at the maples shedding their orange-gold leaves and looked again at the items in her hand. A tear escaped her ancient eye and rolled its way down a leathery cheek.


“MAMA!!! Harold’s tongue! He’s swallowing it!” cried Louise as she desperately tried to pry Harold’s seizing mouth open.

Mother came rushing in, as usual and this time showed Clara how to pry open his mouth from the side and stick the spoon that was lying on the supply tray for that very purpose.

“So tired, Mother.” Harold’s eyes fluttered between rest and wakefulness as his chest was rising and falling slowly.

“Sleep, Harold. You’re fine. Your sister and I are here, we won’t leave you, dear.”

This was the scene heard from upstairs where Inis was putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Zona black eye pencil heavily lined her eyes. A touch of powder from her copper compact and everything was set. She loudly kissed the air in front of her mirror and smiled. Speaking to the reflection she pouted her lips out, “Louise Brooks, pleased to make your acquaintance. Oh, my! Another movie offer? Why, you’ll have to speak to my manager.”

The events downstairs were a regular occurrence in a house with a paralyzed, bed-ridden brother who suffered from fits, or spasms. The doctor came around regularly, supplied a bottle of potassium bromide and directed Mother to keep the spoon handy to prevent him from swallowing his tongue. Harold was pleasant and rather clever, though pale and weak from a life of confinement. Oh, and sick. Always sick. The fits came regularly and were increasingly frequent as of late. Inis’s younger sister had recently quit school to help Mother with the household duties and care of their brother.

Inis herself had quit school last year to join the girls at Charlie’s. Dancing at Charlie’s club was not just supplying her an escape from home…albeit immoral by her family’s standards, but it also brought in serious cash and no one, not even her mother with her Protestant ways, would turn that down.

Upstairs, Inis shimmied into her tight gold sequined dress with the beaded fringe, struggled with the zipper a minute before she rolled her stockings right down to the knee. Lastly, she carefully adjusted her brown cloche hat over her slicked down bob, grabbed her clutch and stomped downstairs.

“Mama! I’m leaving!” Inis yelled towards the kitchen as she headed towards the front door, likely in hopes that tonight after Harold’s episode Mother wouldn’t feel up to a battle. Quick, light footsteps proved her wrong.
Slits for eyes peered at Inis’s heavily made up face, the heat of rage building.

“You’re a disgrace! Do you know what the neighbors say when they see you leave, Inis? I ran into Mrs. Redman at the store earlier today and she had the nerve to ask me if the rumors were true? Thinking my daughter’s a whore? Well, I sure don’t know what to tell her. You’re wicked Inis and if your poor father could see what----“

“See what? See that I bring money in to support you and Louise, and to pay for Harold’s medicine? I think he’d show a bit more understanding.” Inis was clearly steeled for this encounter. A car began honking outside. “I’m leaving, Mother.” Inis slipped out the door. Only the sound of squealing tires was left behind.

“Mrs. Larson?” the comforting voice of the nurse brought her back to reality. Kind, warm eyes looked upon her. “Can I get you something, sweetie?”
“No, I’m sorry.” She glanced over to her nightstand at the last picture taken of her eldest daughter. It was 1926, her sweet sixteen portrait just two years before the bridge accident. “I’m sorry, Mary. You’re so sweet. I was just thinking back…..back too far.”

2nd Short Story Snippet

The dark room was lit by just a single dim bulb, her captor’s face screwed into an evil grin. The simple wooden chair she was bound to creaked with her every shudder. The room, packed with the collections of several lifetimes, left only standing room between them with a small path towards the ladder leading to the floor below. A ladder, it did not seem she would be in any condition to use. The dim illumination provided only enough lighting to make out the two figures clearly. He was standing close over her, the scalpel in his hand glinted as he turned it over and over again, catching the light and reflecting it in her huge, terror-filled eyes. She appeared to be holding back a scream, a terrifying sound held inside her by the tight gag that held her silent.

“I like to draw it out, nice and slow, beautiful” he crooned into her ear.

In spite of the gag, a whimper could be heard as the girl shook her dark ringlets in a desperate plea, kicked her lace up boots against the floor and scooted the chair a few inches away. His gloved hand stopped her short.

“You’re not moving, love. There’s nowhere to go.” He smiled and began to stroke her hair. She dropped her head and shook all over, sobbing.

“Oh, no. No, look up.” he grasped her chin with one black, gloved hand as he brought her face in line with his. “Look at this. You fear it and you love it,” his eyes took on a glazed look as he softly ran the side of the scalpel down her cheek and then back up again, collecting her tears without yet drawing blood. Her chest was heaving and her breathe was coming too quickly. Her nostrils flared and her eyes bulged, and her ivory skin flushed with panic.

He knelt down, and placed his head upon her lap, the soft silk and black lace of her skirts soft against his cheek. She was looking down upon his head of silken ebony hair, but helpless to do anything but stare. She looked around a final time, looking for an escape but not much could be seen in the cluttered room. He had obviously shoved antique trunks, costumes, props, mannequins, and other theatrical equipment aside to provide just enough room for her chair, bindings, and the stainless steel medical tray that held the other implements she knew were intended for her.

“You know, you’re not the first, but you’re special,” he murmured from her lap. He slowly stood up, seeming to gain a certain stature and confidence.

“Look at me!” he commanded. She brought her tear-stained face up and looked directly into his maniacal eyes.

“Lift your chin higher!” His mannerisms were cool, but his eyes were beginning to look frenzied.

She shook her head vigorously and refused.

He lifted her chin with his hand yet again, harder this time, bringing the scalpel down and across her throat in one quick movement. Her head slumped and blood began to flow towards the collar of her velvet burgundy dress.

The curtain fell, applause rang throughout the theatre. A small portly man walked out in front of the curtain.

“Thanks you, thank you for your applause. A brief intermission and we will move into the final act, ‘The Villain Condemned’.

The audience rose, murmuring amongst themselves, as they scattered in search of refreshments and other necessities.

2nd poem revision....

Since my creative writing teacher thought the original poem was about nature as the subject, I modified it to fit that idea in the final revision.


Natural State

Drifting in on a whispering breeze,
Emerald eyes entrap my gaze.
Soft, shy footsteps closing in,
Imploring me to seek her spoils.

Draped in an ethereal bouquet of scent,
Lavender seductively fills my head.
Heady with her divine charms,
I surrender, as my soul takes charge.

Delighting in clear alpine pools,
As I gaze upon a mossy hill.
Perfection in bare-skinned truth,
A lesser temptress there never was.

Dignified mountains, forests of legend,
Mythical seas, or great cities of gold.
All may offer a glorious adventure,
Or perhaps a majestic abode.

Dreamy jubilation in such places,
Longing for the sunset’s calling,
Beckoning me with her fiery lips,
To take refuge in her celestial temple.

2nd Poem for Creative Writing

Soooo....since I punched this out in an hour, it's not really up to par I think, but nevertheless here it is! : )

Natural State

Drifting in on a whispering breeze,
Emerald eyes entrap my gaze.
Soft, shy footsteps closing in,
Imploring me to seek her spoils.

Draped in an ethereal bouquet of scent,
Lavender seductively fills my head.
Heady with her divine charms,
I surrender, as my soul takes charge.

Delighting in her shadowed form,
Madly caressing smooth, firm curves.
Perfection in bare-skinned truth,
A lesser temptress there never was.

Dignified mountains, forests of legend,
Mythical seas, or great cities of gold.
All may offer a glorious adventure,
Or perhaps a majestic abode.

Disenchantment finds me in such places,
Longing instead for the siren’s calling,
Beckoning me with her fiery lips,
To take refuge in her celestial temple.

1st Poem Assignment

The Other

Winter’s morning finds us here,
As though two children bent in prayer.
Sorrow wafts in, gingerly saunters,
Yet heaves itself upon hunched shoulders.
Silence, a merciless banshee between us,
Torments our souls with her phantasmal wails.

Scorched and crumbling fragments of truth,
Molded themselves into something new.
Surreptitiously, seeing one’s eye averted,
You locked us in this musty bubble.
Somehow through the walls you built,
Her fragrance still filled my head.

Short Story Snippet....my personal favorite : )

The wax buildup was sealed, painted and ready for presentation. Francie Walters looked better in death than she had when George had seen her last Tuesday in life, meticulously weeding her peonies in front of the small house she owned directly across the street from George Whitman’s funeral home.

“Well, you certainly didn’t have far to go,” George chuckled as he carefully curled a silver lock of her hair around his finger and patted it back in place. He was rather proud of himself, as he’d nailed this one right on the nose. The date of death that is, that is.

Six months ago, George heard about Francie’s mild stroke and scribbled a date into the small notepad he kept securely in the front pocket of whatever button up dress shirt he was wearing that day. Today was Thursday, so he was sporting his lemon yellow cotton short sleeve. Fridays, he always wore the powder blue shirt. Funerals he always went for starched white collars and long sleeves over his dress slacks and a dark suit jacket. He also wore his sympathetic face firmly fastened over his inner cynicism. He’d offer handshakes, tissues, words of kindness, and compassionate truths which earned him respect amongst the community.

Living in a small town his whole life, George knew each geriatric face and could write tomes about each one. He’d seen Hank Smith ambling by the library on his walks at precisely six a.m. every morning. Like clockwork, Hank had always carried the morning paper and sometimes stopped at the library bench to read. Hank would extend a friendly wave, George would smile both to himself and Hank as he returned the gesture. Another seemingly random day would find Hank cold and lifeless in George’s office. George sighed and frowned. He’d had the date on that one all wrong. He’d guessed December 14th five years previous.

The game had been going on for well over two decades. Just the old ones at first. Once he’d picked a date, he never deviated from it. Cheating would ruin the fun. The first five years were a flop. He only fell within forty seven days of an accurate prediction once. The next three years were far more fruitful. He began scanning the paper with a sharp eye turned towards news of recent accidents or neighborhood gossip. The ‘News of Thy Neighbor’ section by Rev. Higgins was full off all sorts of tipoffs. Nancy Reid’s husband was just diagnosed with thyroid cancer, would we all say a prayer for him?

That was George’s first dead-on accurate prediction. Mr. Reid, who was also his former high school shop teacher showed up as a chilly slab at Whitman’s Funeral Home precisely on February 26th, the exact date penned in George’s notepad three months prior. Still, getting one right on the date was an exceptional rarity. George regarded those as fortuitous days, like a child picking up a lucky penny. Only an event of this kind was far more special.

As his skills sharpened, George expanded the game to incorporate his ever-growing predictive talents. He now scanned the police reports and complaints and kept a close ear out for local gossip at the downtown café. He had dates not just on the decrepit, aging crones in his little town, but he had a list of dates with trouble makers and delinquent youth as well. Investigative research was fattening his notepad up more quickly as the years rolled by. When one was full, he’d simply lock it in his safe and start a new one.

The questions most often asked of his profession were “How do you do it? Doesn’t it bother you?” to which George would smile, shrug and make a vague comment about how you ‘get used to it’. Of course none of these people knew about the game. It was quite simple. Life on the street one day showed up at his shop as death. He was cut straight out of the middle dealings. They were almost separate. Besides, the game was fun.

After finishing up Francie’s coiffure, George decided to treat himself to lunch at the café. He locked up shop and strolled downtown in the sunshine, hardly aware of anything until he heard the squealing brakes and impact. Looking up, George was just in time to see a small child flying across the hood of the braking car. A small twisted body stopped just short of the sidewalk, heaved heavily and remained motionless. Shrieking mother, broken body, a vacant staring driver, a collection of passerby, somewhere in the distance the sounds of sirens, and the flowing tears of a fractured mortician darkened the day.

Ruminations of a primitive cave girl.....

Okay, so I'll admit it: I just crawled out of the technological closet. Only within the past couple of years have I really begun online networking and it's all good UNTIL.............my face and various forum exchanges are plastered all over google. Anyways, my new mission is to 'de-google' myself. I'm starting by eliminating my myspace account. From there I'm going through various social networking accounts and removing the offenders. Hopefully I can get my face off of google: )