bookmark_borderWinter Cometh

Winter is not death. Winter is sleep. A long nap that Mama Nature takes after at least six hectic months. All that growing and fertilizing and procreation and rain and wind and bees and birds and those damn woodpeckers….all that can take a lot out of a girl.

Not many people realize it, but Mama Nature sleeps in the nude. She drops her leaves from most of her body, leaving evergreens in just the right places. Wouldn’t want to blind some young pubescent male. She likes the cold, likes how it makes her feel drowsy, how it helps her to fall asleep.

bookmark_borderFree hand

Look around
and you will find
what you did not
think to look for

Smell the air
its essence real
enough to be
seen and touched too

The war came
the people died
the soldiers fought
war based on lies

Three planes crashed
a ship sank too
lightning found scouts
Gaza dozed flat


Just look at this image. Think about it, meditate on it.

Can you imagine being a sailor at sea two or three hundred years ago, looking off the bow and seeing this coming?

What would you feel? Excitement? Fear? Boredom?

What would you think? “Now what?” “Where’d I put that ‘batten down’ list?”

Would the wind be on your face? Would it be cool or warm? Can you hear the sails starting to pop in the wind? There is almost a rhythm to it.

The ship around you, wooden of course, creaks as the waves pick up a bit. Nothing unusual, you are as familiar with its sounds as you are your own breathing. You put your hand down on the rail to balance yourself. Is the wood rough? Or is it smooth?

The Captain starts giving order so do sailor-like stuff to the sails and ship. This is your job. You are good at it. Your life depends on your skills and of those around you. You don’t have time now to watch the clouds, to see their frightening beauty.

Look at the image again. Does your heart race?


Jonathan stared off into the horizon. Ahead, between the ship and England, lay a storm. This time of year, it can’t be just a simple rain. Even as he thinks it, the sails above him fluffs out, sounding out as if they were a rug being shaken by the maid. They were a month ahead of schedule and if the ship broke up in a storm, they’d all be shark shit by the time anyone realized they were late.

The breeze has reached his face now, and he smells the acrid taint of the storm. Aye, it will be a bad one. Captain Wesley calls out to the crew, barking orders to bring about the sails so they might try to run along side it. He stands at the wheel, a giant thing even in his big hands.

Jonathan grabbed the rope and swung himself up. The others un-attached the sail so he and Marcus could hoist it up. It took just a few minutes, if that long at all, but already the wind was stronger. He could feel it more up on the mast than on the deck. There’d be a cold dinner for sure now.


Jonathan stared off into the horizon. A storm was coming in. He tapped his laptop, waking it up from its nap, and keyed in the latest weather map. It should stay to the east, but to be safe, he’d drop the anchor.

That finished, he sent off an email to his daughter in college in Toronto and his wife at home in Old Mackinac Point. He told them he was sitting out the storm but all was well. He wanted to wait until it was over before docking. That way the little boat wouldn’t get banged up.

After sending the email, he started up the little sterno to heat up his water for the spaghetti. In his bag he also had a loaf of garlic bread and a bottle of mineral water. Waiting out here might not be so bad afterall. Waiting for the water to boil, Jonathan turned on the radio to listen to the reports. Old man Wesley was already at his post, collecting names and locations of any ships in the area that may need assistance.

Perhaps after dinner he’d take a nap.

bookmark_borderShort short story

As I prepare a bunch of stuff to magically appear here whilst I am busy with family, I am also writing and editing and stuff like that.

I just wrote a really short piece that I’d like to share. It will most likely never reach novel status but it may morph into another story later.

This piece is copyrighted and, while available for use, cannot be altered, used for commercial purposes, and must be attributed to me.

Click the link below to read the short short story.

Continue reading “Short short story”

bookmark_borderUnplugging from the ‘net

I was blog cruising the other day and stopped by Paperback Writer’s blog. While there, I read her post about going internet-less for a year and how she moderates her online time even now.

I admire her for her intestinal fortitude.

I’m not addicted to the ‘net. Nope, not me. I can get off of here any time I want. I can! Really.

Scene One:

“You ain’t gonna plug that thing in, are you? We don’t allow no surfers in here.”

“No, no, I’m not a surfer. I’m just here for a drink.”

“Yeah, right. If you just gotta surf, take it outside. Don’t want you bothering the other customers.”

Scene Two:

“Did you read where ‘net surfing has gone up to $2 a minute?”

“Yeah, I did. I keep telling myself that if it ever reached 2 bucks, I’d quit. Now that it’s here…”

“I follow you. They got a patch now. I tried the gum but didn’t like the after taste.”

Scene Three:

A dark sedan, its hubcaps reflecting the light from the only street lamp, was stopping at the corner. A back window rolled down a few inches. Snaking out from it was a stiff wire with a magnet on the end. Once secured to the roof, a faint blue glow was visible through the open window. They were sniffing for wifi. Good guys or bad guys? We didn’t know and weren’t going to take any chances. We shut the system down, sending a couple hundred ‘net junkies into shock.

Scene Four:

I saw her coming down the sidewalk. She wore jeans and a plain t-shirt. But it was neither her nor her clothing I was waiting for. It was the bag she carried. I can tell the ones that’s selling their wares. They grip that handle hard and they have a certain sway in their walk. Probably from the RF implant in one or more ears. While it allowed them to recieve signals over great distances, they hadn’t yet figured out how to fix the balance problem.

She paused at the doorway, looking around the busy street. She spotted me and froze in place. She knew I was on to her. She went through the doorway and into the darkness of the bar. I followed of course.

Just as I thought. There were little cubicles surrounding the room, each with a sliding curtain, hiding the occupant. Others were braver and stood at keyboards placed around the room. Standing gave them the chance to run. Up front a woman, I think it was a woman, was dressed in vinyl text screens and dancing around a small desk. As I watched, she picked up another flexible screen and, as she danced, she put it on her body, covering another bare spot. Debit chips flew through the air to land at her feet. The crowd loved this.

Two big men were talking to the woman I followed, and they were looking at me. I had to decide quick. Did I give in to my own desires and enter a booth to stand at a keyboard? Or did I pull out my badge and barcode gun?

This post was written ahead of time and scheduled to appear on line. If you are reading this, it worked. If you are not reading this, then this statement is gratuitous.

bookmark_borderMama’s Day

Called your Mama yet today? Better yet, gone to visit her?

Ain’t got a Mama? Call or visit someone else’s.

Don’t go out to dinner, cook something together. Like brownies.

Mama’s aren’t perfect. No one is. Most do the best they can with what they got.

My Mama lives over 700 miles away, up Nawth. She married a damnYankee. While I did too, I had the good sense to convert mine over to Southernism and got permission for her to immigrate to the South.

Getting flowers to her at this distance just doesn’t work out. I don’t know what they look like, or what they will send her. You know?

I pick out mushy cards instead, trying to find the one that best represents how we are in our current relationship.

So, called your Mama yet?

Called your Mama yet?
The woman that birthed you?
Had labor for 48hrs in a
snow storm/thunder storm/heat wave/insert-appropriate-cataclysm
while stuck in rush hour traffic?

Twice a year, maybe three,
Mama expects to hear from you.
Mother’s Day, her birthday,
and maybe at Christmas.

Called your Mama yet?
The one that picked you out
from all the others
on the orphanage list?

The one that waited
for the court to decide
who was your mama,
who was family.

Called your Mama yet?
the one that lived down the street
the one that you went to
with questions and problems

Called your Mama yet?
Both of them?
The woman that birthed you
and the woman that married her?

Mama – she who patched your booboo
she who said your clothes didn’t match
who said your hair was perfect
and that pimple didn’t show.

bookmark_borderFreewriting 1

Fighting the Machine

My hands shook as they moved toward the box and its tray. The last time I faced it, I came out not only the loser, but disgraced and disillusioned as well. I settled down in front of it, and waited.

“One must practice patience, grasshopper.” The things that goes through my head… “It wasn’t God who made honkee-tonk ane-gels, as you wrote in the werds of yer song…”

Finally, recognizable text covers the box and I feel a slight breeze of comfort, almost as if I knew what I was doing. My confidence grew. I tried to restrain it but prairie fires cannot be stopped. The fire consumes all in its path, just as my confidence pushed all the alarms into silence.

Clickety clack, clickety clack. Click. Click. Then a firm Click, and it was over. I waited for the Machine to accept my petition, to process it and allow me to continue beyond this point.

But no, again I face the fatal error box, taunting me with its kabbalistic cyber-speak.

Maybe I haven’t offered it enough. Maybe it wants more memory or speed or power. Maybe it just wants. I feed it RAM and DRAM and DDR. I gave it heat sinks and cooling fins. I even got a green alien head sticker for the front. I all but worship the altar I have made.

As I sit and stare at the screen, I begin to recite my curses toward its creator, toward its future as a boat anchor. “Curse you Bill Gates! Lorna, go start the truck. We’re goin’ fishin’.”


__ Long Term Relationship
__ Committed Relationship

I was asked that question on a form as I registered with an online lesbian group. So I asked Lorna, my spouse of nearly 15 years (I won’t get into the spouse, partner, lover, etc titles issue) what she thought I should pick.

Like I just said, we’ve been together for almost 15 years. I would say that is a long time.

We are also as ‘married’ as the current laws of this nation and this state allows and therefore we are committed to each other.

So….how to answer that?

I saw you coming down the sidewalk and I knew, at that moment, you were the one I was waiting for. It was not love at first site, no, it has grown to be more solid than that misunderstood urban legend. We met as friends, wanting to spend a few hours together to get to know each other.

Continue reading “Relationships”

bookmark_borderTo Understand

The world spins
The universe expands
Faster than we can see
Faster than we can understand

The Belove’d spins
Our passion expands
Wider than we can see
More than we can understand

Which is stronger?
Does it matter?
Do we need to see?
Do we need to understand?

To see is to understand.
To understand is to see.
Priorities spin
Priorities expand