Monday, December 17, 2012


A crisis of conscience and a conflict of heart. How do you make the decision of which is right? And once the decision is made, how do you heal the wound that is left behind?

Footsteps on your heart are the marks of those who have made an impression on you that last long after they're gone. This could happen from a person who you met in a bar dressed up for Halloween. It could be a loved one who seemed to only care about you when they needed someone's help. It could be from a treasured teacher who cheered you on, even when their own lives seemed worthless and bleak to them.

For all of the people that make up a life, whether they are a vocal part in a chorus of good experience, the out of tune tenor that is lying drunk under the table or the lead soprano who is always mysteriously and conspicuously absent; they represent the whole. "No man is an island."(John Donne)

Even people who are, for all intents and purposes, a hermit; they are a sum of their environment and the cards that they were dealt upon birth. If you play your cards right, you can sometimes find the one person who makes this complex and sometimes frightening life worth living. Intelligence, tempered with heart and graded by wisdom gleaned from experience is the reward for a well lived life.

I've often mentioned my view of life as it relates to a choose your own adventure book. There are crossroads in life, as in these stories, where one must decide if they're on the correct path, or if they should "slay the bear." Often enough, it is these instances that define who we appear to be in the eyes of others. Are we Good people? Bad people? Trustworthy or Foolish? Are we Brave? Afraid? Or are we Hesitant because we fear being hurt again?

Are we doomed to be a certain way, through an accident of birth? Or, are we a combined product of these predetermined factors and the lives that we live as a result? There are shades of grey in every decision and in every life. Wounds we've carried from decisions and events in our past color the paths we choose down the line and, I believe, make us better people for it.

Ultimately, we are our own worst enemies when it comes to fruitful decisions. Do we stay on the well worn path that leads down to the well known road or do we push through the harder path, with the possibility of danger, hurt and rejection, for the promise of a better possible future? I know which one I prefer. But then, my heart is shaped a little differently from yours... ;)

Monday, November 26, 2012


Benjamin vahn was dead to begin with. Marley would have appreciated that point; Dickens too, if it came to that. Lara, on the other hand, was unimpressed. Actually, if she had had to pick an emotion to coin the occasion, pissed off would have fit much better.
That Ben had died and she had lived was a constant reminder of the underlying problem of their work. Another problem was who had done it, and where in the multiverse had they gone?
Moriarty had nothing on Ben's brother, Caleb.

Wishful thinking

<p>&nbsp; The wind bit deeply into the tips of their noses. The snow had started early for the season and they'd had to rush to bring in the last of the harvest before the first frost. Now winter had its icy fingers into all of their flesh. It was the burden of the watchmen to keep them safe. </p>
<p>Noel would be twenty three this winter. It would be his fifth winter in the watch since he'd become a man of the village. That he still had not offered for a bride was a very popular subject at the local tavern. </p><p>
His bachellor status worried his mother, and it concerned his grandfather. But his father was very quiet about it; when he was home long enough to acknowledge he was still living there.</p>

Sunday, November 25, 2012

A little off the top

The day started out busy enough, but by two thirty the steady stream of walk-ins had died and stylists were beginning to pack up and go home. By five it would be down to two stylists and the chance of an evening rush. Basically, it was turning out to be a typical Saturday. Except for the dead guy, that is...
Of the several shops Constance had worked in, this was definitely the best. Hourly wages, good insurance, and a full service salon with light waxing and nail duties. She might get one or two leg or body waxes a month, but it was never anything too difficult. There were bonuses for those who had more clients and better sales. But, mainly she did hair, and mainly it was men getting the haircuts.
Mostly, her schedule was routine now. Once the salon was closed at seven, she took out the trash while Vicky did paperwork. Thats when she saw it - him, her? - in the dumpster. She'd watched enough crime dramas to know what a dead body looked like, and instead of puking (which was her first instinct), she dropped the bags of trash and ran back inside.
After locking the door, she ran into the office and called the police. Vicky learned about the body at the same time as the policeman on the phone.

Testing, 1-2-3

  She walked back to the bathroom and picked up the stick. Positive. Candace studied herself in the mirror for a long moment. It was the third test she'd taken that day and three days past when she should have ended her period.
  Sitting down on the toilet, she held her head in her hands and tried to force down some deep breaths. James had been so distant lately and the last time they'd made love it had been perfunctory and quick. She hadn't even orgasmed. Not that she did manage that most times they made love anymore.
  "Shit... Shit shit SHIT!" What the Hell could she even do about it? Nothing really. She wanted kids, but not if James couldn't even give her the time of day. She had to talk to him about this when he got home.
  Being an average Friday, he would probably be home late, so she had to call him to try and get home earlier. She cleaned up the box and set the stick on top of the bathroom cabinet that stood above the toilet. Then she proceeded to clean.
  First the bathrooms, then the kitchen and living room. She called James to ask if he could get home early tonight since she really needed to talk to him about something important. Once laundry was done and everything was dusted and she had finished vacuuming, she finally felt like she could relax.
  Any time she was really stressed out, she would clean. After sitting for fifteen minutes, she was in the basement, cleaning and sorting through the random junk being stored there. By six o'clock she was exhausted and filthy, so she decided to take a shower before James got home.
  As she towel dried her hair, she heard his key in the lock and quickly got dressed. Meeting him in the living room, she offered him a drink. He smiled at her questioningly as he took off his shoes.
  "Candace, what's up..." He jiggled his Scotch glass inquisitively. "Come sit."
  She smiled tensely but didn't sit. Instead, she paced, trying to formulate how she wanted to say what she needed to say. He had almost finished his scotch.
  "Would you like another one?" She really wanted a drink too, but she couldn't, obviously. He was losing his patience.
  "No Candy, I'd like to know what the Hell is going on. The house is spotless, you're a pacing nervous wreck and you're trying to get me liquored up. Spit it out already." For as stern as his subject matter, he seemed remarkably calm and gentle.
  She held up a finger to indicate wait a minute and trotted to the bathroom while holding back tears. He hadn't talked to her like that in years.
  She returned with the test and held it out guiltily.
  James blinked at it for a split second before he was on his feet, embracing her first, then picking her up and spinning her around.
  "This is great news!" Candace herd his words and felt his enthusiasm, but all she felt was dread.

Saturday, November 24, 2012


She returned to his place at the bar with a mysterious and large glass of what looked like a margarita.
   "Don't over think it, just give it a try. You'll like this, I can tell." Her eyes were glowing and she had on a mischievous little half-grin. He sniffed at it doubtfully before taking a sip. It was a margarita, but there were a couple extra ingredients that made his tastebuds stand up at attention.
  "See? I told you you'd like it." She grinned wider. "You're gonna want to eat something with that, though. What'll it be?" She already had out her notepad and a pen from her apron and was waiting patiently.
   "Cheeseburger with pickled jalopenos on the side. French fries and a small side of ranch." She nodded her approval, grinned again and walked over to put in his order and help some other customers who had just come in.
   He was still trying to figure out what to say to her when she came over with an ice water and asking if he'd like a refill. She'd have to charge him for the next one, though. He nodded yes and managed to smile back. Not the debonnaire smile that he used to pick up women, but his own, slightly goofy one.
   He was still mentally beating himself up when he noticed the three people come in and take turns hugging his mystery woman. In all of the excitement, he still hadn't caught her name. hi

Wednesday, February 29, 2012


Bagel sandwich. Then coffee, pills and a kiss. All said, it was an inexpensive breakfast. The potato bagel was lightly toasted for a delicate crunch and the turkey sausage offset the sharpness of the cheese and slight sweet of the eggs.

It was easy to distract herself from her plan for the day. She didn't want to leave him. She wanted to stay and build a life together. But she didn't belong here. Not in Denver, not technically on earth.

The ship would be there at noon. There would be no more bagel sandwiches. No eggs, no turkey sausage, no cheddar... And no him. There were men on her planet, sure. But he wouldn't be there and that was the problem.

Reconnaissance had been her objective. Not falling in love. Of course, no one had said that she was forbidden to fall for a native. The pills she took every morning helped her adjust to the much cooler planet and their almost tepid creatures.

According to their first wave of research scientists, the females of the planet ran cooler than their male counterparts. The pills had helped her climatise to her environment. But she still found herself very cold most of the time.

When they'd first met, she told herself that she only desired his warmth. Then, it was his strength. But soon she found herself craving his company and later, craving his caress.

Friday, February 17, 2012


Have you ever noticed that snow seems to float up when the conditions are right?

Warning, not for kids!

They were looking out the store window, Alice's head on his chest while he stroked her hair. Their makeshift bed of pillows, blankets and their coats were spread out haphazardly; Evidence of the activity they'd just finished for the fourth or fifth time that night. Neither one of them had been able to stop or keep count.

The first time had been a matter of pure desperate lust. They had been like two orphans coming home, or two ships passing in the night, or whatever other symalie for two lovers discovering each other.

The second and subsequent episodes had been slower and more exploratory. They went over their new lover's bodies with wide eyed wonder and fresh passion at each discovery. Each one mentally compiling a list of dos and don't.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012


There was a finger laying in the middle of the room. It was no longer attached to its previous owner who was obviously male. There was no trailing of blood or tell-tale drops signalling that the owner had quickly left it behind. Just the finger. Solitary and bloodless. Staring back at the young woman who had discovered it in the middle of her employer's otherwise spotless parlour.

Thursday, January 26, 2012


     The moon smiled over the mountains like a disappearing Cheshire cat in the deepening night sky. Trees along the horizon were swaying in the heavy wind. Headphones on and coat closed, Deanna soldiered on through the weather.
     Soft granola rock was calming her nerves and slowing her pulse, while she stepped briskly back to her apartment across town. A cigarette was determinedly hanging onto her sticky red lips and a soft, thin scarf was doubled up and wrapped around her neck. Both hands were firmly stuffed in her pockets with stiff arms pressing them deeper until the fabric started to protest. The outer jacket was a loose and long leather coat that repelled the gusts, while the under jacket was more like a knitted hoody or sweater.
    The nights take had been low. New bouncer, new cocktail waitress and a new crowd had made for tentative tipping. Not even her low-cut lace shirt, push-up bra and thick cosmetics had not helped today. Some nights were like that, though. Things would pick up, eventually, but for now she had other things to worry about. The wind was slowly dying away and the ash on her cigarette was getting dangerously long.
     Stopping in the crook of a building downtown, she pried the cigarette out of its sticky trap and tapped the ash on the curb. The movement was small, but it was enough to notice that someone was behind her. He was tall with a similar coat to hers. He was also smoking. She waited there for a moment, just out of view of the street light until he came up closer. Luke stopped in front of her and took a long drag of his clove cigarette.
     He knew how much she loved that smell. What he probably didn't know was how the smell of cloves actually affected her. Luke had a distinctive smell to him to begin with, but the combination of Luke's natural smell, his cologne and the cloves was almost enough to send her right over the edge of reason.
     Deanna didn't know the effect that she had on Luke either. In the half-light of the building's edge, her red lips and deep eyes shined with otherworldly delights. Her lips were parted in a half-grin that was full of promise.

Monday, January 23, 2012


   There were flecks of light on the ceiling. Laying on my back, as I was, it was easy to see them dance across the popcorn flecks. Shards of broken mirror were all around, it wouldn't have been a problem to cut myself further, had I wanted to. No. For the moment, laying here was enough.
    Why was I laying there? The last thing I could remember was the glass: cutting, ripping, and shining. Sparkling on the walls, the wood varnish of the furniture, and finally gleaming faintly on the ceiling.
    The light was changing now. Changing hues from pure white to a rosy tone. My eyes were so heavy, but I had to keep them open. Why did my head hurt so much? Blinking hard, alligator tears ran thickly down my face, mixing with the blood on the floor. Trying to move my hands was harder than I thought. It disturbed the glass on the floor, and drove the pieces still embedded in my skin a little deeper. Moving my head was harder still, and within moments of starting the movement, the world went scarlet with pain. Then nothing for a long time.
     White light was everywhere now. Beautiful and blinding. There was something else too. A soft, rhythmic beeping.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Yet another blog...

The secret to writing is getting things out. Like other art forms, its not necessarily the content, but that you've put it out there. Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder. I like what I do, but others may not.

This doesn't mean that what I'm doing is less valuable. I enjoy it... and in the end, that is really the point of creating. Plus, this blog gives me a good outlet for the various ideas that run through my head that have absolutely nothing to do with everyday life. Also, it gets my creative juices flowing for the stories that I'm not ready to share.

Well, here we go:

     The new bite still itched. Washing the bed, apparently, had not been the answer to the bug bite situation. Four bites over the course of three weeks. One bite would start healing and stop itching, and then a new one would appear. Always discovered upon waking, and never in the same general area.
      Navel, right buttock, left breast, right calf, and left forearm. Sometimes on the back, sometimes on the front. They weren't from clothing allergies, or from her sheets being dirty. Add it to the list of awesome annoyances.
     Stolen sticky notes, missing pens, bug bites and bad coffee. Seems things were just adding up again. She itched her forearm absentmindedly as she eyeballed the pile of new paperwork on her desk and the steaming cup of swill the office manager had the nerve to call coffee.
    Reports that needed completion and filing. What kind of joke was that? A person joined an actionable (and undeniably sexy) industry like corporate espionage to go out and do things. Not sit at a desk and push papers around and drink disgustingly bad coffee. It wasn't like the movies or television shows. There were no hot "misunderstood" loner types with their sloe smiles and covert glances, ready for action at all times, even up against the copy room door. Actually, there wasn't even a door to the copy room at all.
     The closest thing she even had to an office romance was the strange tension between her and the new office assistant. It was a no-go, however, seeing as he was both much too young for her and smelled like garlic almost constantly. She sighed into her swill and started filling out reports.
     By 3:30pm, it was time for her weekly one on one with her superior and then she would be off to the gym to let off some steam. The meeting was a necessary, albeit boring evil, and would clear her plate for another uneventful weekend.
     A brisk knock on the heavy mahogany door signaled her entry to Mr. Stanton's office. He had long given up on her waiting for permission to enter, and had been expecting her in any case. Mr. Stanton shared many qualities with his door and all of the other decor of his room. He was hard, utilitarian and overall a deep shade of warm brown. There was no warmth in his eyes or his tight lipped smile, almost as if he had been carved out of wood himself. That he was smiling at all was a very foreign and foreboding change.
     "I have a new assignment for you." He picked up a manilla file from his desk and handed it to her. "I want you to go to the South Pacific, to these coordinates." Latitude: -46.00615, Longitude: -84.16602 approximately 400 miles off of the coast of Chile. According to the terrain mapping of the ocean floor, there was some sort of extinct underground volcano.
     "As exciting as this seems, what possible use could this be to the company..." She eyeballed him from over the open file. "Sir."