Speed Writing Stuff

starting with “It was a dark and stormy night.”

it was a dark and stormy night. then a cold and rainy day. a snowy night followed by a bright but cold day then an icy night, and on through the days and nights of the year, while Ed stood in his front doorway and watched the days pass like bad special effects in a cheap made-for-tv movie. season followed season and year followed year, while Ed checked his phone, trying to gauge how fast time was passing outside his grandfather’s old farmhouse.
he was dumbfounded enough by the impossibility of it all, so it was slow going, but eventually Ed pegged it at about seven-and-a-half minutes a year. he didn’t feel the cold or the rain, the wind or the sun… in fact, his central air-conditioning kept running like it was the same day he’d opened the front door to find time flying by – a warm May afternoon.
it was hypnotizing, and Ed didn’t feel too concerned about the fate of his wife or children because things in dreams – or hallucinations – didn’t affect the real world, and he lived fully in the real world, so there was no doubt what he was seeing wasn’t real in the least.
the houses in the neighborhood aged, quick flickers of motion evidently people going to and fro, and still Ed watched, and wondered which of the drugs he’d done in his youth was bringing him this flashback.
finally, growing bored by it all, Ed stepped outside.

write about a haunted character.

empty spaces on the walls where pictures had hung.
it was the first thing she noticed every time she came home.
he’d left most of the furniture. they had been her decorating choices anyway, but every picture he’d been in, he’d taken with him, leaving not a trace of his image anywhere in the house, every little bit of him gone, not a sock under the bed, not a prescription bottle in the cabinet, not a food he liked that she didn’t in the cupboard. the garage was spotless except for what she stored out there, and that wasn’t much.
she wasn’t sure what had gone so terribly wrong. they’d had their issues, just like any other couple, but one day he’d gone from loving-her-and-exasperated-by-her to just-plain-gone. everything had been fine in the morning, and when she’d come  home that evening it was as if he’d never lived there at all. she couldn’t even find their marriage certificate, their joint checking account was a single account, only her name… she’d look at the mortgage papers but that was useless as she’d been buying the house when they’d met, he wasn’t involved in that.
he’d even taken the smell of him, leaving the house smelling of her patchouli candles and Febreeze.
later that night her eyes went blank and unfocused when she found one of his combs at the very back of a bedside table drawer. dressed only in her nightgown she took it out the back door, across the two acre field to the ravine, and threw it in, on top of the his body, and everything else that had been his.
she wondered how her feet had gotten so dirty, rinsed them off, and went to bed.


in the daylight, it wasn’t so bad. scenic, actually. a ruined church in a country full of ruins, a country where the scars of war weren’t covered up with ugly concrete bandages that pretended to be schools and offices and stores and churches.
a country that wanted to remember.
at night, the ruins took on a different tone. the church was a place where people gathered, and mourned their dead, and wrote the names of the dead and messages to their departed loved ones on scraps of paper they threw into garbage barrel fires, to be carried up to the heavens as ash. the people spoke their own language, quietly, in whispers, and prayed their conquerors had no spies in the crowd.
not that it was likely, given the differences in their appearance, but no one could completely discount the stories of humans working with ‘them’.
and when daylight returned, there were their overlords, asking in the politest of terms if the people would really prefer ugly concrete bandage buildings, put up free of charge, new and modern and convenient and comfortable.
and the people smiled politely, and said, “thank you, but no.” they returned to the crumbling remains of their home, and tended their little gardens, and their flocks of sheep and herds of goats, and pointedly looked away when the bright shiny trucks came through their towns, with free food, and supplies, and medicine, and books.
and when someone died of malnutrition, or disease, or exposure, or simple old age, their names were added to the remembered war dead, names on paper, thrown into fires.


listening to: a very quiet and peaceful house
mood: good, albeit very barely awake

Writing the Horror Out

some of the sweetest, most kind and gentle people i’ve known have written some of the sickest and most depraved stuff i’ve ever read.
writing can be purgative, it can release your inner monsters out onto the page, freeing you from them (at least for a time). it’s something i have no small amount of personal experience with, the source of stories and rants in a file to be destroyed by the executor of my will, stuff no one should ever see.
and so, i’m not in jail, or dead. 🙂
sometimes, the monsters aren’t our own. sometimes the horror isn’t of our own imagining. sometimes it’s reality, and like our imaginative horrors, it gets stuck in the grate of our minds, and it sits there, periodically swelling up in an infection of ugliness.
two ways to deal with those… write out the source of it, or just drain off the emotional pus and keep going.
i have one of those from September 11 i still haven’t dealt with, and i recently picked up another. this new one isn’t going to be around for long, Creative willing and the creeks don’t rise, as i have a story already brewing up about it, and i’ll be incredibly glad to get rid of it.

sometimes silly people ask why we’re writers…


listening to: “All She Wants To Do Is Dance”, Don Henley
mood: haunted

Some Speed Writing Stuff

sometimes she feels so lost. she looks around the life she’s made for herself, and it’s everything she wanted when she was younger – home, family, career, and it’s all morphed even beyond that into a larger home, a bigger family that looks great in all the photos, and a very successful and lucrative career.
and she thinks about running away, and leaving her four really-not-so-perfect children, and her boring husband, and the mortgage payments and credit card debt and compulsive shopping, and too many drinks every damn night, and vicious dog-eat-dog work environment.
leave it all… and be who? who is she without all that? what would she do? she has to do something; that’s the way she was raised, taught in school, and college, and church, and her job.
she has to do something , she has to be someone.
and she is… well, she thinks she is… and she’s completely lost.
nothing brings her happiness… she still loves her children, and she guesses she loves her husband, but they’re joyless loves of expectation and duty, loves born of expectations she’s no longer sure she wants to give a shit about.
and she dreams of flying, wings beating furiously against the sky, two-ton weights tied to her feet.


it had been nine years since they’d last talked. they hadn’t parted on bad terms, he’d gone his way, his childhood friend another, and life got busy for both of them, and like always life tended to focus all their attention on what they could see six inches or feet or yards or miles in front of their faces, and out of sight, out of mind, and things had happened, life milestones, and each had thought of the other from time to time, and sworn to call, sworn to email, sworn to text… it was easy to swear, hard to actually do.
and then the police had dragged the lake, completely unrelated case, and found the car, and Harlan’s body, and Evan had heard from the cops first, and did he have contact information for Richard?
they’d sworn they’d never talk about the it, they night they’d watched Harlan die of alcohol poisoning, when they’d put him in his car, and rolled it into the lake.
and it was one hell of a non-reunion, Evan and Richard sitting in separate interrogation rooms, just a wall between them, each wondering if they other would remember a story concocted nine years before.


something spoke to me about the house. i could ignore its infamous past, and i thought the decor was… interesting. Madame Pantanay’s Frolic Society had been a high-end establishment, decorated in classic, gilded and opulent style, and once it was finally mine… well, mine and the bank’s… i’d decided to keep the themes, adapting them to decorations in rooms for other purposes.
my sewing room was the nursery, bright cartoon animals on the walls, and the over-sized crib to hold bolts of cloth and other sundries. i turned the dungeon into the guest bedroom, as my weird friends found the idea endlessly amusing. the doctor’s office became my library, a comfortable, but austere, chaise lounge replacing the examination table.
everyone’s living room needs a red velvet swing, and the former bar/parlor area obliged. i’ve taken to to listening to music while swinging… very relaxing.
a large kitchen is always a plus, and i opened the girls’s actual sleeping accommodations into storage, a guest bedroom, and music room for my piano.
victorian painted lady, former bordello, eclectic home… certainly not a suburban box like all the others.


i got lotsa friends… friends who think they’re comedians.
that was my first thought when my hungover brain focused through blood-shot eyes on the worn army duffle bag in the middle of my floor.
what had those schmucks done  now?
the dead rat in my air vent had kept them laughing for weeks, and i had long ago made checking to see if sugar was really sugar and salt was really salt a standard procedure.
so… a duffle bag.
i tried to shake off the Jack Daniels fog and find my legs. not that i’m a cripple or nothin’, but me and Jack had talked for a long time the night before.
i hit the head, brushed my teeth with my finger, and debated coffee before unwelcome surprises.
good idea that.
coffee it was, and i was on my third cigarette when my eyes finally allowed me to read the tag on the bag – Jack Carlson, Private Investigator.
yeah, that was me, right apartment and everything.
$100,000 in large bills, and a dead midget wrapped in cellophane.
i don’t think this is the work of my funny friends.


listening to: “Porushka – Poraniya”, Kukuruza, “Gornitsa”
mood: productive, but getting hungry

You Know, I Suck At Blogging…

now i can put some of that down to a stealth case of depression this past month, but part of it’s my posting on Wastebook. lots of interesting things end up there that might’ve ended up  here, had i come here first.
but i didn’t, so they sit on the Zuckenstein’s monstrous misshapen creation, and lazy prick that i am, this blog is ignored.
i’d like to say that’s going to change. i’d also like to say i’m the Emperor of the Known Universe.
but i am looking at ways to change the frequency with which i don’t post here.
this also tends to end up being where i dump far more personal stuff than i would generally post on Wastebook.
lucky y’all.
it’s not really an author’s blog. it’s more my personal psychic dumping ground and traveling road spew. yeah, you get stuff like speed writing pieces, but you also get reminiscences about my life, philosophical naval-gazing, and general bullshit.

listening to: “Magnum Opus”, Kansas, “Two for the Show”
mood: productive

Some Speed Writing Stuff

a list of “L” words, made into sentences, and strung together into a narrative.

The lunch lady loved Tuesdays. That was Meatloaf Day, when the bodies of the inevitable victims of teenage lust were ground up and served to the remaining students. There was no lack of ketchup to sweeten the pork-flavored loaves. Ed looked at Caroline, sitting lonely at the end of her own long table. There were few students left, and even so she’d never spare a second glance for a loser like him. It was why they were still alive, unlike their late classmates. If he could the keys to the school’s Land Rover, she might consent to go on the lam with him, instead of waiting around like lambs to be slaughtered. Down the road, past the fields of landmines, out into a world where teen sex was regarded more lackadaisically.

haiku, containing “sweat”

her sweet, post-sex sweat
passion’s fragrance, pooled on skin,
spread by ceiling fan

she wants the good life.
i offer blood, sweat, and tears.
she snidely declines.

we live in Hell’s pit
i swear it on my ball sweat,
chafing everywhere

welcome to the South
horses sweat, men perspire, and
our women glisten

so, regular exercise,  noun, verb, adjective, and adverb, and i’ve got to come up with a noun. my brain screams “VAGINA”, but we have this rather creepy dude in attendance who tried, badly, to sexualize everything, so i just wouldn’t use that word, but it’s in my brain, and i cannot for the life of me think of another noun other than VAGINA. and so finally after minutes of brain-lock, i came up with ‘tupperware’, to join ‘run’, ‘peachy’, and ‘slovenly’.

“just fuckin’ peachy, thanks for asking,” i said, even though he hadn’t. his slovenly ass hadn’t budged off the couch all morning, while i’d been running hither and yon, returning everyone’s tupperware.
just another post-funeral chore.
i wish he’d died, instead of mom.
if he was still sitting there watching football when i got through heating up church-lady-casserole for supper, he might join mom in the grave faster than expected.
no grieving, no tears, hell, he’d been reluctant to leave the television for the funeral, and had sat there like a lump of sun-fermented shit wile everyone came to the house to express their sympathies and mouth their inanities.
i hated him more and more every second and considered if prison would be better than living with him.

list of words, one per minute, work ’em into a narrative.

i swore i’d run for it, i’d bolt, if she told me the kid was mine. no amount of tears were going to fix it this time, she’d cheated on me with every friend i had, and i wasn’t sure even a paternity test would convince me.
“well Wendy, it’s been a blast and all,” i said, when she claimed it was mine, “but you’ve been a home for lonely cocks, including, i’ll admit, mine, for so long, i figure you can find someone with more money and less dignity to take care of you. let him watch you fuck someone else, maybe he’ll get off on it.”
she tried to look wounded, but couldn’t sell it.
“nobody left on the list, asshole. you’re my last chance.”
“hold on, let me see, Wendy,” i said, “see if i can give any fewer fucks… no, i can’t. i’m outta here.”

mood: mellow
listening to: the documentary “History of the Eagles” on Netflix 


Lemme Tell Ya A True Story…

(tl;dr i’m more proud of honorary degrees than the one real degree i have)

so, i was born and raised in a small Central Texas town, and up through the last half of my 8th grade year, i was an inmate of the Smithville ISD. starting in 4th grade, we were divided into “A”, “B”, & “C” classes. generally “A” was the above average students (although one year they reversed it as i remember), “B” was average students, “C” was below average.
I was always in the above average group. never had to study, didn’t understand those who did. “where you in class? did you read the book? what more do you need?” i was actually a bit of a dick about it.
then came puberty. and where before my mother and i had lived with her parents, come the hormone storm, my grandmother could not cope. she was only semi-joking when she claimed i’d become “demon-possessed”. she’d raised two daughters, and a teenage boy was a metric buttload more than she wanted to handle.
understandably so.
so mom and i moved to Del Valle. closer to Austin, where she worked, which helped make us living on our own viable.
and i got to learn a whole new set of rules and games, courtesy of the inmates of the Del Valle ISD.
rule 1: new kids are fags.
rule 2: smart kids are fags.
rule 3: (learned later) kids who don’t smoke are fags.
rule 4: (the Most Important Rule) fags get their asses beat like they’re pinatas.
i got used to eating my lunch sitting on a closed toilet in the bathroom.
and mom got used to seeing me with new injuries. and didn’t have any problem at all writing excuses for days i chose to stay home and avoid the gauntlet.
being my mom, she was ready to go down and visit fire and fury upon the school district, but i convinced her that was a Bad Idea.
every kid knew, you don’t rat out fellow inmates. it would end in nothing but more pain, and make things worse.
(folks who know me are already aware, but for those of you just tuning in – i can’t fight for shit. never knew how, never learned. my idea of tactics stop at the forward charge, and using my limbs (and body) as blunt objects)
so, i learned i wasn’t smart. smart got me hurt.
and eventually i wasn’t the new kid anymore.
and things got better.
until they found out i didn’t smoke. see rule #3 above. i started smoking at age 13 to remain a non-fag. smoked for 27 years.
(before Del Valle, walk up behind me without me knowing, smash cymbals together. i’d turn around and ask you why. after Del Valle, same situation, i’d be stuck to the ceiling like Sylvester in the Warner Brothers cartoons. my friends used to like to smash trash can lids together next to my bedroom window in the middle of the night to see how loud i screamed.)
we moved back to Smithville after a semester of misery and i was back where i belonged.
i’d just picked up a few issues.
while in subjects i was interested in, i still didn’t have to study. subjects i didn’t give a shit about, i failed. i simply didn’t care enough to learn, and didn’t know how to study if i had. if lack of interest and reading the book (and occasionally attending classes – more on that in a bit) weren’t enough, i failed. (and thus began my family’s obsession with my own personal most hated phrase in the English language – “you’re smart enough to do anything you want. why aren’t you (doing whatever we want you to)?”)
and i was living in a sort of cognitive dissonance – on the one hand, if i was interested in the subject, it was kind of hard to avoid noticing i was smart, although i passed it off as classes simply being “easy”, and my disdain for those who had to study grew to outright scorn. and on the other hand, if i failed, it reinforced my lack of smarts, because being smart gets you hurt.
(odd example of dissonance in action – algebra. freshman year, was failing halfway though, Ms. Baker put me on an introduction to algebra workbook so i’d at least get half credit for the year. breezed through it in three weeks, straight A’s, and spent the rest of the semester in study hall. sophmore year algebra. new teacher (and one of my favorite people ever), Ms. Smith. i failed. hung out over at her house a lot, a lot of kids did. she and her husband helped cultivate my interest in classical music and history. during the summer between sophmore and junior years, a discussion we were having became an argument, and she would not let me walk away, everywhere i turned there was a short, cute redhead in my face. without realizing it, i drew back a fist. she said, “You wanna hit me?” “Yeah!” “Fine, you pass algebra this next year, you can deck me!” “What about him?” (referring to her husband) “You don’t worry about  him!” “Fine!” passed algebra, straight A’s. didn’t hit her.)
never cheated, was never tempted, even in subjects i was failing, except once (more on that later). so, junior year, chemistry. a semester on organic chem, a semester on inorganic chem. loved organic, breezed through, hated inorganic, with predictable results. (yet i never thought that in the same year, same basic course, one half of it was easy as hell, the other half so hard i confirmed my stupidity… cognitive dissonance, it’s not your friend)
now, all through high school, the lesson i’d learned at Del Valle – if you don’t want to go, don’t, and get that excused absence courtesy of Mom – kept escalating. and the truant officer couldn’t nail me, because i wasn’t playing hooky out in the wild, wide world – i was at home in my jammies, reading and watching PBS.
remember, this is before the days of “if you’re absent too many days, you don’t move on no way no how no matter what your grades are”. my junior year – the height of this behavior, i was absent more than i was there by three days. yes, skipped half the year and three days into the other half.
teachers and school officials knew i wasn’t sick all that often, but they couldn’t prove it because of my shameless blackmailing of my mom. “write the excuse or i don’t get to make up the tests i missed.”
and i was also running a moderately profitable business in selling stolen pink hall passes and, my specialty, exceedingly readable, and thorough, miniaturized cheatsheets, each carefully hand-crafted for the customer. extra-fine tipped pen, a very steady hand… it was artisanal cheating. and while my customers sometimes got caught, they never ratted out who’d provided their cheat sheet – ’cause after you catch two different students using identically hand-crafted miniaturized brilliance, you know there’s a third party involved.
so while i’m breezing through courses like advanced biology, and failing German and chemistry (among others) i start picking up correspondence course credits so i’d be able to graduate. they were easy, so very much like that “introduction to algebra” workbook.
comes senior year, according to school counselor, i’ve got enough extra credits, i should graduate, even if i fail a course.
and chemistry looms before me again.
they’d changed it to inorganic first semester, organic second semester, and i’m limping through inorganic. it’s all going to come down to the final. i wanted to pass, i really did. i could fail and still graduate, but it had become a bit of a steelcage deathmatch between me and the world of non-living chemical reactions.
so, for the first time in my life, i considered cheating. i created one of my best pieces of work, everything i might need to know, on a 4 inch by 3 inch sheet.
and right up until the exam, i was going to use it. but at the very last minute, i decided to maintain my clean record. i had maybe a minute before Mr. Albrecht started passing out the exams, and i did Not want the sheet on me, or i might be tempted, so i balled it up and tossed it onto a desk, three desks away from me. good shot, landed right out in plain sight. no way i could get up and get to it during the exam.
and Mr. Albrecht saw it as he came back to the back row, handing out the exams one by one.
yes, i made it. i was planning to cheat up to the last minute, but decided not to, and threw it far enough away so i couldn’t use it, even if i changed my mind.
quite noble of me, i thought.
he, and the principal, Mr. Stacy, who’d been wanting to nail my ass for four years, disagreed.
i automatically failed the exam, didn’t even get to take it to find out how i might have done. instead i was in the midst of an enchanting conversation with Mr. Stacy.
but it was okay, i could afford to fail a class and still graduate, and i was doing fine in everything else.
(until recently i didn’t realize that my admission of creating the sheet identified me as someone they’d wanted to nail for three-and-a-half years. funny ol’ world, innit?)
so, second semester begins. i’d forgone ordering a class ring ’cause really, jewelry commemorating my time as an inmate didn’t appeal to me, but i’d ordered my invitations to graduation.
and three weeks before graduation, the guidance counselor tells me he’d miscalculated. i didn’t have enough credits to graduate. and three weeks was far too short an amount of time to race through a correspondence course and get the credit for it.
he smiled when he told me. and i smiled back, because lunging over the desk and choking him wasn’t even a fantasy. i’d been fucking them for four years, now they were returning the favor.
mom wanted to interfere, i told her no. i deserved it. i’d bought the ass-fucking, it was time to lie forward and think of England.
getting my GED was one of the easiest things i’d ever done. really, if that was all that was required to get an equivalency degree, most kids probably could’ve taken the exam their freshman year and exited the system, should they choose.
so that’s why i wasn’t upset, but rather amused to find i’d stashed the only real degree i have behind my Bachelor of Arts in Medieval Metaphysics from Miskatonic University.
i may have bought that piece of paper from a gaming company, but years of being a part of a group of independent, if-it-works-use-it, self-styled magickal practitioners… i’d earned it. (okay, maybe not the ‘medieval’ part, we tended to qualify more as chaos practitioners than historically based) (and no, don’t ask me if what we did was real or not. depends on your view, and more importantly, on my view on any given day.)
and now i’ve added an ordination from the Universal Life Church, and a Doctor of Divinity degree from same, earned by years of studying religions and theology, even though i paid for the doctorate.

for me, my life earned me two degrees and an ordination. the GED? that was kindergarten shit.

mood: reminiscing 
listening to: “Copperhead Road”, Steve Earle


Public Indecency

okay, first off, let’s get a bit of the air cleared right away.

i have problems with concealed carry laws, because although getting a permit to do so is not easy, i’m still uncomfortable with the thought of people walking around with firearms when i can’t be sure of their intentions. but the problems i have, they’re minor, really.

as opposed to my problems with open carry.
i’m one of those people who find armed folks walking around rather nerve-wracking, even if they’re the police (sometimes especially if they’re the police), and when Bob/Bobby Sue walks into the restaurant i’m patronizing or the store i’m shopping at, or even on the same street i’m walking on, carrying their weapon, i’m not going to think “well there’s a proud American, exercising his/her Constitutional right to bear arms”.
i’m thinking “holy shit, is this person gonna open fire?”

and when i see people walking around with their rifles, shotguns, semi-automatic rifles on their backs, it offends me.
i didn’t need to know just how small their dicks are. really, i didn’t. don’t wanna know. don’t care that the Creative short-changed them in the equipment department, the long weapon’s not fooling anyone, put it back in its case, zip up (figuratively), Put The Penis Away.
and fair warning to any store or restaurant i’m in – you let folks open-carry inside, and i see it (i’m hypocritical enough to deal with just knowing you’re allowing it), you have lost me as a customer. right then, right there, leaving. if it’s a grocery, i’m leaving the cart right where it is. if it’s a restaurant and i haven’t already paid… well, we’ll see what happens about that check. if i have the cash, you may get money dropped at the register in the approximate amount of my check. if i don’t… you may well be fucked, but i’ll tell you why i’m stiffing you as i leave. if you want to file charges, have at it, Alfie. there’s a potential armed threat in the vicinity, i’m getting the fuck out post haste.

because there’s no way to tell, and i have no desire to become a statistic of American gun violence.
of course, if it’s a killer, i’ll probably know pretty quickly, and if it’s not, yay, the terrorists win, another anti-gun Liberal chased away from pollutin’ the air of Real Amurricans.
but i take my Pyrrhic victories where i can get ’em.


mood: content
listening to: dawgs chewin’ on rawhide bones

Last Night’s Speed Writing

bit of an odd one, as i decided all prompts would be pictures (although the last one turned out to be haiku because of time constraints), so here we go.


sometimes his life felt like a he was sailing on a calm, gentle sea.
this wasn’t one of those times.
nothing really was making sense at the moment. his girlfriend had left him because he was ‘a nice guy’, and still wanted to be friends, while she dated a complete and total jerk. his family didn’t think going for a Doctorate in Interpretive Dance was a proper use of his time or money, and had cut him off financially, and socially as well – his perfect drone of a sister Tammy Lynn said their father had taken him out of the will so fast he’d spewed ink on the walls. his new job at Office Despot was going well, small blessing that as it made him just barely enough to keep body and soul together while he filled out grant appilcations.
yeah, life was swirling around the toilet bowel, and he was the turd trapped in the flow.
that’s when he met Sharon, at least, that’s how her name was spelled. she pronounced it like “Charon”, the boatman on the river Styx, and was a trust fund baby with an itch to play.
after a few weeks of what he thought of as dating, but could be defined as risky sport fucking, they were a couple, and he didn’t have to work at Office Despot, and he didn’t bother with grant applications anymore. she was happy to pay for his education, his room and board, everything.
there were some downsides, though. interpretive dance is best performed without someone shooting blow darts at him. when he wasn’t involved in school work, he wore a pink PVC French Maid outfit and responded to the name “Fluffy”, and he slept beside her bed, when she wasn’t using him in it.



the night sky, so clear you could see infinity.
he’d had to get far away from civilization to manage that view. out in the desert, a beautiful desolation, interesting phallic rocks pillars, nothing to eat or drink for five hundred miles unless he’d brought it with him…
which he had – he wasn’t crazy, just tired of people and noise and engine exhaust and talkingtalkingtalking about nothingnothingnothing ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
out here he could think.
out here it was cold at night.
he fished out the blanket he’d brought, and continued to lie in the bed of his truck – electric of course, with enough extra batteries in the bed for the trip out and back, all under the plywood board he was using as a floor.
he was ready. there was nothing to distract him, nothing to pollute his experience.
he mixed the synthetic mescaline with milk in his reusable water bottle, swirled it around until the mix had achieved creamy, chocolaty consistency.
now, the universe would speak to him, and he would listen. enlightenment at last. upon achieving that, he wasn’t sure he’d ever go back. perhaps better to just lie under the stars, and then the sun, the divine cycle, and pass into the Great Unknown.
then the Milky Way became Kim Kardashian dancing just for him, and he spent his trip masturbating (to the point of extremely raw skin), and in the morning he drove back home, and took the job his father had offered him.


Look, for the kind of money the photographer was offering, Tad woulda fucked the Great Dane, not just appeared in a photo spread with it, but he had to admit, as it went on, the whole experience qualified as the strangest damn thing he’d ever done.
and even with all the proper permits, and blocking the streets off, walking around naked, painted like a Dalmatian… okay, it wasn’t weirder than the Fuckin’ Elvis music vid he’d done, where naked female weight lifters had tossed him back and forth over a firepit, but the whole walking around naked thing was still kinda freaking him out, and the banner he was carrying made just as much sense as anything else he was doing.
so… a whole day, capturing light from various angles at various times, the occasional paint touch up, the handlers cleaning up after the dog, the trips to the porta-potty so they wouldn’t have to clean up after him… his feet hurt, his skin itched like a motherfucker, he was sure to have a rash… the money. all he could think about was the money, and following the directions of Jeaurard, the photographer.
Clyde had done some research when Jeaurard first approached him, but hadn’t found anything. so the guy was young, and someone thought enough of his ideas to finance the photo shoot, and pay Clyde five thousand in the bargain.
hell, the Fuckin’ Elvis vid had only made him five hundred, and that had involved live flame around a lot of very drugged out people.
finally, when the day was done, Jeaurard had shot his last roll of film, the rest of the crew booked for parts unknown. nobody to help him get the makeup off, but hey, Jeaurard had left him an envelope in what had passed for their makeup area.
“Dear Clyde,
Sorry, but I spent all the money on the permits, and crew, and film. Afraid you’re just fucked.
not even a towel. streets weren’t blocked, traffic was coming through.
the police were on the scene pretty much immediately, and all Clyde said was, “I won’t resist arrest if you guys promise to help me get this fuckin’ makeup off.”
he welcomed incarceration, it made the perfect end to a perfect day.


it was home, and always had been.
nineteen generations of Wilshires, hundreds of years of being part and parcel of the upper class, watching the world change around their home, behind their moat, all the while unable to modernize a single solitary thing about the house. their money, all managed by a trust set up by their fucking too-many-times-great-grandfather.
they had to live there.
they couldn’t change the place.
the National Historical Registry of Homes of Note were thrilled – Williamshire was the only completely authentic example of the period in existence.
a local economy had been grown in the nearby village, consisting solely of ways for the Wilshire inheritants to spend their money and deal with the facts of their life.
oh, they could be gone from the house as long as two nights before breaking the rules of the trust, and over those nineteen generations, the properties behind the trust and its value had continued to grow.
as had the number of Wilshire bodies in the slimy depths of the moat, all of them suicides.
finding spouses from outside the family wasn’t hard, and had gotten easier with each generation and the larger monthly disbursements, but it didn’t take too many cold, drafty nights, or sweltering days, all accompanied by Eau du Moat to convince that new blood that they were living in the sadistic joke of a demented dead man, and that they’d made a deal with the Devil himself in accepting marriage into the family.
really, suicide was the best option, wasn’t it?

took some funny photography tricks, but the cathedral looked like a model.
last photo taken of any part of the city before everything went to shit.
in the end, not biowarfare, or chemical weapons, or nukes or zombies or, God save us from the ridiculousness of it, animals in revolt.
well, i say it wasn’t biowar or chemical, because no tests have ever shown any sign of foreign agents in those afflicted.
they just wandered out of their homes, businesses, churches, clubs, wherever it was they were at 12:00 GMT, May 3rd, 2018. they wandered out into the street and died, of no cause more discernable than they simply weren’t alive.
99.84% of the population.
i woke up that morning, on the other side of the planet, expecting mom and dad, a call to breakfast, my sister making fun of my deadly bed-head… and i was alone.
really alone. the only survivor in our medium-sized town alone.
and the streets were full of dead people, including my family, and i was thirteen, wearing the bottoms of a set of NASCAR pajamas.
i went a little crazy then, i think. i left signs of it all over town, clearly visible, which is how i got spotted and picked up by what was left of the Texas National Guard – a helicopter pilot, a clerk, and one private who was about as bad off as i was.
(and I’m definitely wanting to take this one further)


i see angels.
i mean, i don’t see real angels, if there is any such thing, i’ve just got this fucked up thing in my mind, kind of like synasthesia, were periodically, people turn into angels. lemme tell ya, damn drove my parents crazy when i was a baby. i’d fuss and cry and scream, because nobody looked like angels, and then they would, and i’d calm right down, laugh, smile. it didn’t take the doctors long to diagnose that it was a perception issue, something cross-wired in my skull, and it wasn’t until i had hand-eye coordination enough to start using crayons, and learned to speak, that i could really let my folks know what i was seeing that made me so happy.
they were very understanding, and i grew up in pretty much two mental states.
vague depression, and bliss.
then puberty hit… as did another side effect of the condition.
because when i say ‘bliss’, i mean “Bliss”.
uncontrollable orgasms. had everyone scared had developed some kind of epilepsy there for a while.
and that was the end of my formal schooling. no way in the public education system to deal with a girl who was as likely to start uncontrollably orgasming as not.
took me eight years, some hormonal settling, to learn to control that, but i was 21, and i’d already gotten my GED… but i could think about going to community college, at least part-time.
i’m majoring in art. maybe, if i can show the world what i see, maybe it’ll help make the world a little happier.
dear god, just don’t let my art trigger the whole orgasm thing.

and finally haiku, using the word ‘float’…

you are my tether,
not my ball-and-chain. floating
away? really sucks.

my inner tube float
great ship of the line, river
naval war campaigns

sometimes, being the
last turd to stop floating is
the best i hope for

a floating crap game
“come on seven and heaven”
holy shit, broke again


mood: deciding to go back to bed and try to get some more goddamn sleep
listening to: Conan worry the bowl my sausage biscuits were in



Why You May Address Me As Dr. Reader, Should You So Choose

(and if  you are a minister of a non-Fundamentalist, established denomination, Protestant or Catholic, then Mr. Reader is just dandy.)

if you should, by accident or mischance, end up watching almost any of the Christian networks, you’re going to see a lot of Doctors.
and quite a few of them will have received their honorary Doctor of Divinity degrees from Bob Jones University.
to acquaint yourself with BJU:
tl;dr – men speak for god in the home, women shut up, do not work outside the home, and make babies, biblical fairy tales trump science, children are to be severely disciplined, sexual assault is the woman’s fault, the bible is the literal word of god, the IFB minister’s interpretation is to be accepted as the word of god, even when it doesn’t agree with another IFB minister. these people are the bottom of the barrel of Fundamentalism, but a growing denomination. i tell ya, these IFB fuckers… they’re alignment is Medieval Scary.
BJU, the spiritual home of the Independent Fundamental Baptist denomination, is, like the IFB, a fucking snakepit of crap theology and medieval thinking.
and they love handing out, and selling, doctorates for which no course work is required.

my honorary Doctorate of Divinity from Universal Life Church has course work behind it. i’ve taken theology courses, studied several faiths, practiced several faiths, examined many others, and therefore have a better grip on theology than an IFB asshole, or other Fundie fuckheads. and do not even get me started on the heresy of prosperity gospel. i have every right to consider myself the superior theologian to any Fundie minister on the planet – they wear the blinders of Biblical Inerrancy, and i recognize that doctrine as a load of crap.
so, i’ll gladly wear not only the title of ULC Minister, but the title of Doctor of Divinity… unless i’m around a real, non-Fundie, legitimately trained person of the cloth, in which case i’ll defer to them.
of course, i still don’t believe they automatically have a better grip on the truth of the Christian faith than i do, for i am proudly a Protestant, allowed to read the Bible and interpret it for myself.
kinda like an IFB pastor, except i don’t have, nor do i want, a church full of willing sheeple under my command; i recognize the validity of science; i realize the Bible most certainly isn’t the inspired word of God, to be taken literally in all circumstances, as men have fucked with it multiple times over its history; i view women as equals; i am most definitely LGBT-allied, and quite a few other happy differences.

so i proudly stand with my ULC brethren in proclaiming “we are all children of the same universe”. i’ll be hanging my degree once i pick up a frame.


mood: defiantly anti-Fundamentalist
listening to: dogs snoring


What I Call the Sarah-Michelle-Geller Syndrome…

it’s no big secret that the severest critic of my Porn Soap Opera From Hell – in the whole “what moron thought this was a story and/or well-written” sense of “critic” – is me.
plainly put, i think it’s pretty much shit. that doesn’t mean i don’t love the characters, or that parts of it don’t move me deeply, but let’s just say i’ll never consider it my finest work, or even close.
my Creative, i just realized i’m a porn snob about my own porn.
then there are the other stories i want to tell, and time spent writing a soap opera isn’t spent on them.

but something the end of Book One has brought out is my fans are passionate, and willing to put out some bucks.
and face it, if it could turn into something paying a decent amount, a soap opera’s a gravy train. they don’t end.

(the reason for this post’s title is after “Buffy”, SMG didn’t seem to want to have much to do with it. all the cast would get together to record commentary for the DVD releases, but not her. she’d gone Hollywood, after listening to people tell her she was a star, and television was an unpleasant memory. she took a shit on her gravy train, and where’s her career now?)

so, if i shit on “Oil of Roses”, shove it to one side, continue to look down it, am i shitting on my gravy train?

things to think about…


mood: contemplative… and given the hour, real tired
listening to: “Kashmir” – Led Zeppelin