Archive for October, 2010

I sometimes have a character without a story, who is interesting none the less. Someday, maybe Drusilla will have a story of her own. I’m sure there’s at least one hiding in there somewhere –
Do you remember when air travel was so much better, before the tight security? Back then you could stuff your husband’s body in a trunk, fly to France, dump it outside of Paris and still have time for dinner with your French boyfriend.

The dog barked, waking my husband .
“Hush,” I told the dog.
My husband rolled over, “Who are you talking to?”
“The dog.”

Who does he think? My French boyfriend hiding in the closet? Hopefully he doesn’t notice the body size suitcase. – Drusilla Signet (current character in question)

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I was in college in Maryland. It was a Monday when I received a call from my mom. We talked about this and that and how it was going.

At the end of the call, she said, “I’ll meet you by the gate.”

At the time, I thought she meant the gate to her yard or garden.

On Wednesday, another family member called saying my Mother’s doctor had stopped treatment for her cancer six months earlier. That there was no hurry, but I should come see her.

I finished a test on Thursday and started driving back to Texas late Friday. I drove all night. When I got about thirty minutes from home, I felt it. It was like a huge rubber band connected to my gut had been pulled tight and then cut.

It snapped back and I knew my mother was no longer at the other end. I began to cry.

When I got to the house, no one had to say anything. I could see it in my sisters’ eyes.

My mother was lying in her bed, her hair had been combed. Someone had dressed her in a white cotton gown with tiny lilac flowers and a ribbon at the collar. Her hands were folded over her chest. I touched them, but they were already cold.

I knew then she hadn’t meant her garden gate, she would be meeting me somewhere else.

This is the basis for a book I’ve written, Meet Me at the Gate. Once it’s been polished a little more, perhaps it ‘ll be publishable.

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I thought I would try something a little more mainstream this week, so here goes –

“Charles is having an affair,” Margo blurted out.

She glanced away, staring out the window as if she had just told me she bought a handbag that cost more than my mortgage. There was no point asking. Margo never said anything unless she was sure.

I glanced around the restaurant at the other ladies lunching. A lady at the next table was picking through a salad – no dressing, no cheese, no chicken, no onions. Onions were carbs she’d said. Her friend, just as thin, had plowed her way through a shrimp cocktail, egg rolls, and was now working her way through nachos. I noticed she went to the ladies’ room between each dish.

I love food too much to be anorexic and not enough to be bolimic, I thought, cutting into my lasagna, with cheese, meat, sauce, and extra bread.

The restaurant was filled with bored ladies politely tearing each other and their husband’s down. I was a fresh water fish in among the salt water. Margo wasn’t like these women. She met Charles in college, worked as hard as he did to make his career. Strip away the Prada and Gucci and she was just a girl from a farm in Texas somewhere no one had ever heard of.

“I’ve started my garden.” Margo was back.

“Forget the garden. What are you doing to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you contacted an attorney?”

“An attorney? God no. Do you think he has?”

“You’d know if he had.”

“People are like shoes, you know. You remember when I was in college. I was a strappy pair of heels. I was cute and sassy. Men were attracted to me. I could have my pick. Then Charles and I got married. We settled down. I became what he needed me to be sensible, intelligent, hardworking – nurses shoes. You think a doctor would appreciate a good pair of nurses shoes. But no, he takes up with a pair of trampy stelletto’s.

“Men are like that, they’d rather have a pair of vinyl shoes with a little extra silicone in the toes.” I was trying to stick with the shoe metaphor, but failed.


Margo looked at me, brows wrinkled, frowning. She smiled, then laughed. Not fake laughter like that from the tables all around us, but real laughter.

Her blond curls tossed as she laughed. She was still cute, maybe not as sassy. I wish the old Margo was still in there.

“You can take the house.” I was trying to steer Margo towards reality.

“The house?”

“You can take the house in the country and Charles can take the apartment in the city.”

“No, I don’t want the house. I mean, I want the house. I don’t want a divorce.”

“But he’s cheating on you. You have to get a divorce. Everyone whose spouse cheats gets a divorce.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want a divorce.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t have to play by their rules. I can make up my own.”

Perhaps the old Margo was in there somewhere.

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This is the last post in Necromancy Week. In honor of Suzanne’s new Kitten, I thought I’d write in the perspective of a new character, a smart talking Necromancer’s cat.This is not related to previous posts.

Buttons sat on the open window sill, his green eyes narrow slits. He calculated the amount of force it would take to propel himself through the air to the robins flitting about outside. Nevermind the two-story drop.

“Buttons, come away from there,” his mistress sternly called.

He obeyed, begrudgingly.

Mind your own bee’s wax, he thought.

“You don’t want to eat them anyway.”

No, duh, the whole cat of the undead thing.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed.

Buttons pretended to ignore her, closing his eyes. Sometimes he thought she could read his mind. She was unnerving like that and cats are hard to unnerve.

He seemed like any other cat unless you looked too closely. Other than the scraggly fur and an ear that had seen better days, he seemed quite normal. His mistress had resurrected him when she was four. She was the most powerful necromancer in a thousand years, maybe ever. People avoid someone with power like hers.

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My dog, Peaches, is afraid of the broom, the mop, cell phones, the car, white linoleum, ipods, sticks, bugs, leaves, loud noises, … She’s brave enough to bark at things from our livingroom window. In an effort to increase her self esteem, I’m now encouraging her to bark at other dogs from the window, saying things like “Get em Peachie, blood makes the grass grow green”. I don’t think that’s odd.
They say dogs are like their owners, I don’t see it. Must be my husband’s dog.

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This is a continuation of the last post about the team of necromancer’s in the inquisition after returning from their first mission. I’m going to try this entry in third person instead of first person.

Liza had been eight. Her and her sisters had slipped under the shed at the back of this yard, slingshots at the ready. Sarh had following them as she always did. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. Midsummer’s celebration was always a target rich environment. Everyone was there. Liza had just struck the first blow. Dad, back of the neck. Perfect shot. He turned, confused for a moment, eyebrow lifted.

Then he spotted us like a hungry wolf sighting its prey. Before he could act, there was a scream. Aunt Illa fell. After that everything exploded – screaming, shooting, blood, death.

Dad motioned for us to stay. What took minutes seemed to take hours. Some of her cousins, not much older than her, tried to defend their dying parents and their siblings, but they had been mowed down. They were no match. Her own brother, Kell, 12 threw himself over a pram, trying to save their younger brother. Kell had been struck down with little effort and the infant with him.

Men in long robes of the brightest blue, the royal order, walked among the bodies, killing any who managed to survive. Even the infants and toddlers. None were spared, only those few who like Liza and her sisters managed to hide.

Their leader looked straight at Liza. Before he turned and left.

“I see.” The inquisitor, Timble closed the book.

Did his face seem to soften? Perhaps.

The inquisitor to Timble’s left Baerik leaned forward. His features were sharp, hawk like. “Perhaps they were targeted?”

“Because they had no elders?” Timble asked.

“Or perhaps they have no elders because they were going to be targeted.”

“That was ten years ago.”

“Who’s to say someone hasn’t been waiting for this moment?”

“Why would destroy an entire family?”

“No one was ever charged.”

“It’s farfetched but I suppose possible.”

Baerik turned to Liza. “Did you notice anything different about that day? Something unusual? The feeling of being watched perhaps?”

“I wish I could say there was, but there wasn’t.” Liza ran a hand over her forehead. “It was just like any other morning.”

“Take us through it then.”

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Sometimes I have words stuck in my head. The only way to get rid of them is to write them down. This is an example of phrases taping me on the shoulder when I should be writing —

Remember those childhood games we use to all play
when a do over would save the day?
And you look and you think and you wonder.

You wish you had those do overs in life.
You could back it all up and make it all right.
And you look and you think and you wonder.

And now that you’re grown
You have to play it alone.
And you look and you think and you wonder.

Is this the day that will end it all?
Is this the day that you finally fall?
And you look and you think and you wonder.

Should you be playing at all?
Would you be safer not risking the fall?
And you look and you think and you wonder.

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Several times a week I see an elderly woman working in her yard. There she is wearing tan slacks, cotton shirt and wide brim straw hat, bent over pullling weeds under the shade of tall trees. This is what I think of when I think about America. Some people might imagine parades, fireworks on the 4th of July, fishing at the lake, picnics in the park or a roaring fire and a good book.

I think of my Grandmother working in the yard.

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You never know what you might find if you clean out your old files. For instance, I found a novel I wrote when I was 16. Yes, it was with much fear and trepidation that I dare read this horror from the past, a romance novel. It was only two short years later that I was told I should give up writing by a college professor and took her at her word. I stopped writing for more than 20 years. Here is an excerpt —

Standing at the top of the stairs, the darkened corridor seemed strangely threatening. In Mariah’s haste to escape her Father’s lecture, she had forgotten to take a lamp. She heard a low voice from the shadows.

“From the sound of things, I win. Get use to it. I always win.”

Mariah felt the warmth of Damon’s body behind her. She trembled in spite of herself.

“We’ll make a splendid couple.” Damon’s breath was hot against her ear.

“I’ll not submit to this without a fight.” She threatened, turning to face him.

Damon’s dark curls fell across his forehead. His chiseled features settled into a thin smile, but the hard glint in his steel-gray eyes betrayed him.

“I can be very persuasive.” Damon griped her arm.

Mariah stiffened. The knot in her stomach tightened. She wanted to run, but Damon held her fast.

His hold tightened. “And you know what they say.” His voice barely audible.

Mariah shook her head.

“All’s fair in love and war.”

She detected a threat behind his words. She tried to pull away, but the more she struggled, the harder he held her.

“You’re hurting me.” She gasped.

“Was I? I didn’t realize.” Damon smiled, releasing her.

Mariah stumbled before regaining her balance.

“Good night, Love.” Damon quickly disappeared down the stairs.

Mariah retreated to her room. She lit the lamp on the table. The light danced across the wall and the shadows retreated to the corner. Blank canvases leaned against the bulging bookcases. Paints and brushes were strewn liberally about. Books were stacked in precarious piles. Everything was familiar, but different. What was important this morning, didn’t matter now. Mariah sank down on her bed. Her shoulders slumped. Her slender figure cast a small shadow on the wall in front of her. She stared at the wallpaper without seeing it. Pastel pink and blue flowers wove up the walls on pale green vines.

How could everything have gone so wrong? Staring at the flowers, she couldn’t help but replay the day’s events in her mind. …

I don’t think it’s that bad really. I don’t have the last 1/3 or so, but I remember it ended with Mariah knocking Damon in a raging river, presumably to his death. Damon of course, was not the hero. I was told I was too dark. That may have been right for 1978/79. Makes me wish I hadn’t stopped writing for so long.

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DC needs a posse, a team to help him conquer evil. A trifecta is in order. DC is of course the first in our trio. A male companion, one able to stand up to a personality like DCs is needed. I think I’ll add the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama. Since this is a farce, he was reincarnated as a dog and is a little chauvinistic. The third personality should be female, beautiful and have a history with the Dalai Lama, perhaps Illiana, Godess of War and Love. So the first encounter might not go smoothly after a few centuries of feuding. —

A beautiful woman stood at the chair across from mine.

“This chair taken?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

She sat.

“What a cute dog,” she said, patting Dalai’s head so hard he winced.

“Ass,” Dalai growled.

“Pig,” she replied, tossing her dark hair back with a flip of her head.

The dog and woman seemed acquainted, but refused to look at each other.

“You didn’t call,” the woman said, malice evident in her voice.

“It was one date,” the dog replied. “Centuries ago, lay off it.”

(As the conversation continued, Dalai and Illiana disagree with the approach for saving the world.”

“I think I know best,” Dalai continued, lecturing, “I have lived for five centuries.”

“Four and a half.” Illiana’s dark eyes sparkled.


“Four and a half. Remember the snake in Bangalore?”

“That was you. That snake bite killed me.”

“You didn’t call.”

“Enough with the calling.”

“Jerk.” Illiana slammed her cup down.


“You should talk.”

“Check again, I’m all man.” Dalai’s ears lifted.

“You check again.” Illiana smirked.

Dalia gave a quick double check only to realize Illiana was right. He was indeed a female dog.

“Are you kidding me?” he yelled, looking skyward. “Not just a dog, but a female dog. Are you kidding me?”

“Karma sucks.” Illiana took another sip of coffee.

“Asshole,” Dalai replied.

“You might want to stop calling me names. Last time it was bitch and look what happened. Keep it up. You never know what you might come back as next.”

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