Dreams and Tails

As far as writing goes. I am feeling a little like a failure. I haven't done as  much as I would have liked... actually I haven't done anything at all. And at my age I feel that door closing quickly. I have over 600K words written and nothing but a half full 6GB jump-drive to show for it.
I am chasing dreams and tails and all that is getting me is dizzy and tired. What am I wasting my time on? Dreams. And tails.  I just get exasperated with whatever I am currently working and I move on to another story and then they never get finished. Or they they get finished but never edited. Or they get finished and edited but never queried. Or they get finished and edited and queried but never mailed out. In the end its all the same. A dream to write becomes reality and takes form on word document but its final resting place is just me chasing my own damn tail.
*Sigh* I wonder if I will ever grow a pair and actually do something with this God given imagination or just let it rot in a never ending cycle of circles.

Ambrosia Skin

Ambrosia skin

 

A kiss from my pink stained lips transfers to the rim of yours

a sticky sweet taste like cherry flavored dew drops

lingers on your mouth as if sprinkled with a glaze

a quick breath after a sizzling touch, pulling all stops

you kiss again unfazed

 

My flesh blazing warm under your clutch taking me

higher Cooing enticements slip from your lips triggering a desire

spawned from eve

A taste of flesh, a salty fetish

lingering on the brink of a brazen persuasion 

to delve into my furtive grotto and drink of my ambrosia

then bring forth my reprieve

 

On the offence not to deceive reciprocity

a gluttonous demonstration of coveting  

A lollipop to satisfy the sweet tooth kept handy

An insatiable cadence, a delicious delicacy

An ambrosia of his own

shared only with me

The question

One question I always find myself asking is... Am I doing this right?
*Am I keeping the blog the way I am supposed to?
*Am I analyzing this account from the right perspective? (work)
*Am I handling this argument the proper way?
*Am I writing the story that is in my head the right way?

I still haven't come by an answer for the few of many questions I listed above but I would like to address the last. When I follow the blogs of other writers, some well known others just blooming, the first thing I do is find a post about their writing style. (if they have a post)

The same question is asked of many authors, "How do write your stories?" Any many authors are generous with their answers. But one common answer I find is most authors set out a guideline before they put fingertips to keyboard (or if you're archaic- pen to paper). They write out their ideas and formulate a plot and research and research some more and then some draw out an outline.

I tried this once. Who am I kidding, I tried this a lot. But I always find that I rarely stick to my outline. I affectionately refer to my writing style as schizophrenic. I come up with an idea and typically I will write a paragraph or two about how I want the story to progress. Sometimes my paragraphs turn into multiple paragraphs; an army of mini-stories that get woven together like linen to make an outfit. Sometimes it works for me. Sometimes it doesn't. Most often I find myself re-reading what I have penned and find out that there are inconsistencies or contradictions. And the rework is tedious. But I always find that I am still as in love with my characters as the day i birthed them.

So where am i going with all of this? A writing style is just that- it is YOUR style. There is NO right or wrong way to go about it. Depending on how your write you may create more work for yourself later but if that is how you do it, then do it- own it. Sometimes letting your characters tell their own story and then tweaking it later is the only option.

So, write on friends. May you find your style and may your style be the lifeblood of your stories.

#HappyWrighting.

Empty cradle

Empty cradle

Empty arms fold into themselves carrying nothing but a regret that was promised to save a life, to give him a chance. Arms, folding around a hollow shell of a person living a hell that she created for herself. Doing what she thought was right, she gave up the fight too quick and lives with the reminder of her failure.  

Hearing his cries in the middle of the night she wakes to a reality that is only lies. Blue walls with little boy toys, denim overalls and cooing baby noise fade into the darkness of an empty room. An image that could saver her dissipates as he sleeps in an empty cradle?

And I see as I leave I

turn my back on the pain

that your name isn’t mine

and I lacked the strength

to do what was right.

And it shows as I go that you

are better off not knowing

my name, ‘cuz it stains

the very string of life

 I can’t heal the pain inside your heart when there is nothing left of my own. With all my sins exposed you are safer to never know me. Maybe when you are grown you will understand the sacrifice made so you could be, so you could see, the world for what it really was.

And you will never hear the hurt in ever tear that fell from my eyes when you were never near for me to hold. Behind the perfect guise a terrible story hides that no one was ever told. Please baby know that I never wanted to go and leave you in her arms as her son when you were mine.

 

But I see as I leave I

turn my back on the pain

that your name isn’t mine

and I lacked the strength

to do what was right.

 

Now it shows as I go that you

are better off not knowing

my name, ‘cuz it stains

the very strain of life

that I gave to you.

I cant do over the mistake I made when I walked away. I carry a hate that I would have betrayed you because they gave you what I could only take away. And as I go I want you to know this was the only way I could show that the only thing I knew was to do right by you.

 

So I see as I leave I

turn my back on the pain

that your name isn’t mine

and I lacked the strength

to do what was right.

It shows as I go that you

are better off not knowing

my name, ‘cuz it stains

the very strain of life

that I gave to you.

Excerpt "Zephra"

** In this short excerpt Zephra, my half human half android, has slipped through the boards of the back porch outside of the carriage house she is temporarily sharing with Hyact, her temporary body guard.  Does Zephra need a body guard? No. But she is about to be sent on a very secret, high security mission and the "Secretary of Defense" wants to make sure she is kept out of trouble until she is needed... Unable to free herself from the silly predicament, Hyact comes to the rescue only to find the clumsy oversight is graver than they both thought.**
--------- The year is 2133 and America has taken a drastic turn. Only the elite, the modified and the over trained survive as mercenaries. But even in an Utopian world not everything is as it seems. And Zephra, a twenty-one year old veteran is about to find out that killing in the name of your country is still killing. And when the hunters become the hunted only the fiercest survive-----------

*Enjoy!

“Zephra, why didn’t you just pull yourself up? You’re strong enough.”

“I was stuck,” I gently roll onto my side so I can briefly lift my shirt and show where one of the boards had gouged into my ribs. “And I panicked.”

“Zephra, jeese, let me see that.”

I lift my shirt again and pain as real and raw as I have ever felt ripples through me and I clinch my teeth. Hyact looks at me.

“Take your shirt off.” He says as he scrambles to his knees.

“I’m sorry what?”

“The board that had you pinned, pinned you because it was lodged in your side. Panicked or not if you had tried to lift yourself out, you would have punctured a lung. I don’t know how, when I pulled you out, the movement didn’t rupture something. But Zephra, if I don’t tend to this, it will heal, but I promise you, you will have a scar.”

I sit up, ignoring the pain and I put my hands over my head. “Off.”

As Hyact shimmies my shirt over my head I feel a stabbing pain and it grows by the minute.

“It shouldn’t hurt this much.” I lay back as gently as I can, but the room seems to tilt a little with the effort.

Hyact looks at me. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“I don’t know how many times I have to say this, but you had a floor board embedded in your ribs. A few are probably cracked, but worst of all you have a hole in the side of your body that still has not started healing.”

“Ok, yeah I get it now.”

“Your blood is everywhere.” I try to ignore that Hyact’s fingers are exploring the flesh around my ribs, ribs- may I remind you- are right underneath your chest. Yup, ok so you get it now, good.

“It’s not obstructing my sight though. Never thought I’d be happy to see someone bleed clear before. But there is still so much of it, I can’t get the hole to close up.”

“What can I do to help?”

Hyact looks at me and shakes his head. “Give me your hands.” I hold my hands out and he twists one to hold my back and the other he places on my side. My finger tips touch something hard and slippery.

“Hyact what is that?”

“Your ribs.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah now you get it. Ok, Zephra it may hurt but I need you to push the two sides you are holding towards each other. Can you do that?”

I nod. He nods and I push. The pain...oh I can’t describe it. I grind my teeth to keep me from passing out. But I see plenty of stars. I don’t let up. The pain roars in my ears and I can’t hear anything else. Everything is tunnel-vision effort and I focus on the only thing I can see clearly, the lines in the wood floor.

I feel like the pain goes on forever. I try breathing through my nose and I can faintly feel my body rocking as Hyact works on the wound. I keep breathing and I know if something doesn’t give soon I will pass out and look like a fool. The slow rocking stops and I feel a wave of warmth stream through my body. I feel flush, like I am floating in a pool of hot water.

Hyact comes into my very limited line of vision. He puts his hand on my cheek and I smell blood. Then he holds the hand out to me and I grab it. Sound comes rushing back, but is accompanied by a ringing. I gasp but the pain immediately starts to ebb.

“Oh it doesn’t hurt any more.” I say airily.

“I gave you enough morphine to drown a horse. You probably won’t feel anything for a few hours.  Seriously Bonnie, I don’t know how you didn’t pass out from that. A greater man would have- shit I probably would have.”

"Weird Dream"

Written by Dale Spencer
Follow him on Twitter !
Or check out His Website;  (Coming May 2013)

Weird Dream:

I hate Monday mornings thinks Samantha. They’re the worst! She stares at the classroom

whiteboard. She yawns before resting her head on her desk.

“You’re dreaming,” exclaims a male voice.

She lifts her head. Weird. He’s not in our class. How come no one else seems to notice?

After blinking several times, she whispers, “Leave me alone.”

“No. Come with me.”

“Look. I didn’t sleep well last night,” says Samantha. Not to mention my so-called best

friend is twofaced! I can’t believe she said those things about me at Steve’s party.

“You never woke up. We have to go now!”

“What?”

He grabs her arm. “Samantha, your life is in danger.”

“Let me go, you psycho,” she looks around. No one is aware of their presence. Her forehead

creases, “I don’t understand...what’s going on?”

He rolls his eyes, “Just come with me. I’ll explain as we go.” Yanking her forward, he

drags Samantha through the classroom door. They rush down the empty hallway.

“Your dream…I’ve changed it. It won’t be long before he notices.”

“He?”

The boy doesn’t respond. He stares straight ahead.

She frees herself from his grasp, narrowing her eyes, “Hey, who are you? And what do you

mean I’m dreaming?”

“I’m Josh. Look, the one who did this to you wants you dead. But he can’t pull the plug on

your mind until you reach a blissful state.” He motions her to go on.

“Trust me,” she scoffs, “There’s nothing ‘blissful’ about this place.”

“Again, I altered your dreamscape. You were supposed to win a chance to be a singing

contender on a reality show. Everyone at your high school would admire you.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that would change my mood.” She grins, “Especially if I got to rub it

in my former bestie’s face.” She pauses, “Why would anyone want me dead?”

“Your mother took something that doesn’t belong to her. A research associate of hers wants

to kill you and hold your older brother’s mind ransom until she returns it.”

“What did she take?”

“No time to explain. Let’s go!”

They rush outside. Josh stops, causing Samantha to bump into him.

A man stands before them. He gives them a glassy stare. “Joshua, what are you doing?”

Josh stays in front of Samantha. “I won’t let you do it. She’s innocent. She’s done nothing

wrong.”

“Fool! I told you to quit monitoring this girl’s dreamscape. Your obsession with her has

gotten out of hand.”

Samantha’s eyes widen. He’s been watching my dreams? She turns and sees Josh staring

down at his feet.

Josh reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hand gun. He cocks and aims it at the man,

“Sorry, Sam. When you left Friday night’s football game, I injected you with a serum that allows

us to monitor and control dreams. Please forgive me Say goodbye, Dr. Jenkins.”

“Are you crazy?!” gasps Samantha, but she does remember feeling a sharp sting on her arm

last Friday. So it wasn’t a bee.

“If you release her mind,” says Peter, “I’ll have you arrested possession of drugs. Isn’t that

why you agreed to help me in the first place? Don’t you want a clean record, boy?”

“Not at the expense of someone’s life.”

Samantha hears the sound of a bullet. Everything around her turns white, and she sees that

she’s sitting up in her own bed. She remains there for over an hour, contemplating school, her

social life, Josh, and whether or not she has been a victim of dream control.

A young man tosses a wrinkled shirt over his head. He stops in her doorway. “Shouldn’t

you be in school? Mom will be mad.”

She glances at her clock, “You’re late too. Let me guess. Today is ‘Senior Skip Day’?”

“I’ll take you to school if you keep your mouth shut about this.”

“Deal,” she grins. “Oh, and Andrew…”

“Yes?”

“Did you by chance have a weird dream last night?”

He lifts a brow up, “No. But you’re the weird one in the family.” He glances at his cell

phone, “Speaking of weird, have you heard the latest news? One of Mom’s co-workers, named Dr.

Peter Jenkins, was in pursuit of a troubled teen. He just got hit by a car and died. The kid

convinced the authorities that Jenkins was blackmailing him. It says here that Peter was giving his

test subjects drugs that induced dreamlike hallucinations without their permission. Several people

have already died from his experiments. He was working on a project related to oneirology.”

He pauses, “Before she left today, Mom told me that she planned to expose someone at

work for unethical practices. I wonder if she was referring to him. Weird, huh?”

Samantha clears her throat, “Yeah, weird.”

"Zombie Cookies"

An excerpt by Christopher Chapman
For more by Christopher check out his Blog here

           I never thought myself different, that is until the night I crawled into bed and had the most messed up dream ever. And I know what you're thinking, my dreams are probably more messed up than yours. You're probably right, but I've never had a dream like this before.

           It was the same as every other night. Hanging up the phone, after talking to my only living friend, and settled into bed. I still haven't gotten used to sleeping in such a nice bed. After running from a coven of witches and being homeless, a nice, warm bed is just what the doctor ordered. As I drift off into slumber, I have the strange feeling that I'm being watched, but I cannot keep my eyelids from slowly closing, and the darkness finally takes me under.

          I find myself standing in front of a church, a familiar looking building. A faint howling comes from my left hand side. I glance and there was nothing there, it's probably just one of the dogs that live down the road, I think to myself. But just as the words go through my mind, another howl. This time it came from behind me. I turn quickly to see a beast, much larger than any dog I've ever seen in my life. I start to back up slowly towards the building. It turns to face me, as if it knew I was there. Of course it knew you were here, you idiot. You're standing in an empty parking lot in front of a church, I think the devil himself knows where you are. It howls again and charges.

           I turn and boot it to the doors, please be open, please be open. Oh god, please let the doors be open! I pull the door hard, it opens. I get in and slam the door as hard as I can.
            BANG! The beast slams into the closed door. My heart races, I can feel my pulse in my ears. I look out the small window at the beast. It's huge! It lifts it's head and stares at me, and I have to move away from the door. Those eyes. Where have I seen them before? Certainly not in a beast! My mind yells at me. No, not in a beast, but the do look familiar.

            I creep away from the door and in between the pews. I notice that there are people sitting down.

          “Hello,” I call out, hoping that someone would be able to help me. Not one of them moved, they all just stayed in the position they were in. I walk closer to one and realize that he is not living. Get out of here! My mind yells at me, but my legs do not listen. I'm frozen, staring at this corpse that is sitting in the house of God.
           SLURP... GARGLE...

           I look around for the noises, so I can run in the opposite direction. I back up slowly, and back right into something hard. A shiver runs down my spine as I turn around to look in the face of a crazed looking old man. His hair thin and unwashed, hanging lifeless around his thin boney face. He lifts his hands to my face runs his stick like fingers down my cheek. His eyes a dull gray, looking into my soul. He pulls a plate out of no where, and holds it in front of my face.

            “Zombie cookies?” he coughs.

            I jerk upright, sweat dripping from my brow. Oh thank god it was only a dream. I reach for the glass of water I have sitting on the bedside table, but all that is there is a plate of cookies...

Excerpt from my Wahlker series

Here is the prologue to  my new young adult novel. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think. Grand thanks you @DaleSpencer and @JLLicea on twitter for their help on this new intro. Enjoy and Happy Writing.

PROLOGUE

 

The woman looks down at the tiny little thing she holds. The baby girl has greenish blue eyes, eyes that are more pale green than pale blue; her eyes. As the baby looks up at her and shakes her tiny fist the woman feels a twinge of fear.

“Tally, my promised, what ails you?”

Tally, still holding her infant daughter, looks up at her Promised.

“Victordom.” She shakes her head and glances down at her daughter, “Twins.” She whispers for what has to be the hundredth time.

“Yes my love, twins.” Victordom settles on the arm of the chair and looks down at his wife and daughter. A baby coo’s from nearby and Victordom stands and walks toward the crib. He looks down at the infant boy who waves his arm for a moment and settles into sleep. He smiles, touches his son’s belly and walks over to his wife.

Sitting back on the arm of the chair he gently strokes his daughters head. Her pale blond hair feels like silk under his fingers. “I understand your fear Tally but these twins are a gift.”

“Yes but,” She glances down at her daughter and smiles warmly. Her smile belies her apprehension. Looking up at her husband she lets the fear show, “Wahlkers do not have twins.”

“There have been some.” Victordom tries to reassure.

“There have,” Tally argues. “And they have been sought after and killed.”

Victordom shakes his head gently, “That was during the Great War my love. There have been twins born after that which have not suffered the finality of violent deaths.”

Tally watches her husband for a moment. She has the power to calm, to sooth and if need be to mentally incapacitate. Her husband, a pure blood Wahlker, possesses the ability to read one’s aura and a physical strength that could rival warriors.

To be a Wahlker you must be born of it. It is not a disease, you can’t catch it, and you can’t alter your genes to become a Wahlker. It is something that runs through your veins from the moment of your creation. Tally knew that Victordom’s family was pureblood; at times she wished her blood line had the same purity. But Victordom never seemed to vex himself at Tally’s blood status; she had never felt anything but love and support from this stone of a man.

“All will be well my love.” His eyes shift to the infant she is holding and as Tally adjusts her daughter Victordom kisses his wife’s head. “Let me get you some tea. I will be back in a moment. With a quick touch to his daughters head he leaves the room.

Tally looks down at her daughter and the baby girl, only a few months old, looks up at her with such focus that Tally sighs. “An infant should not have such a focus.” She shakes her head but smiles at the baby.

The baby coo’s gently and sticks her thumb in her mouth. A genuine smile passes over Tally, momentarily losing hold of her fear and apprehension. But as the baby girl looks up at her, slowly pulls her thumb from her mouth and reaches for her mother’s cheek Tally feels the fear return with a vengeance.

“Oh my dear daughter, what will come of our family?”

Protect them. Tally jumps and glances at the door.

“Victordom?” No Answer. He must be in the kitchen. Tally turns back to her daughter but she is looking off into a corner. When her daughter giggles and waves her hand towards the corner Tally’s heart rams against her chest.

Fear not. Tally can’t hide her fear; she gasps and moves to get up. “Victor!” She screams loud enough that it wakes the sleeping baby boy. As he wails Tally hears the voice again as if it standing next to her.

Protect them Tally. Seek the Owens, for they alone can shield here.

Tally is seconds away from screaming when a chill sweeps through the room and in an instant brother and sister fall quiet.

“Tally?” Victordom is standing in the doorway, a cup in his hand, the vapors of the hot contents wisp out of the top of the cup and lick the air before disappearing.

“Did you not hear my call for you?” Tally whispers, her voice laced with anger.

Victordom stares at her a moment and then slowly shakes his head.

“I did not hear a thing. What is wrong?”

“Someone was here.” Tally glances around the room. The baby boy is wailing again, the baby girl is still searching the room and Tally, herself, is overcome with fatigue. 

“What happened?” Tally flinches at her husband’s tone. In the ten years they have been married she has never heard him take that fierce tone. When she looks at him his expression is stone.

“I heard a voice it said to protect them. It said,” She takes a breath and some of the tension slips away, “To seek the one’s called Owens and they can shield here.”

“Ownes?”

Tally nods. “Do you know what the Owens are?”

“Not what, who. And yes, I know who they are.”

“Can they come here and help?”

“I don’t know, but we will ask.”

Tally takes a step closer to her husband. “Then we shall call on them.” Victor nods and kisses her on the forehead.

“We will be fine. We shall call on the Owen’s and we shall have our household protected. My promised, I will do whatever is asked of me.” Victordom nods once, sets the tea for his wife down on the night stand and leaves the room.

Tally looks down, “We shall never speak of this Leilani.” She whispers to her daughter. We shall never speak of what has happened here tonight. And for as long as I am able, I vow to protect you.”

Baby Leilani looks up at her mother and for a moment Tally feels like the tiny baby understands her. Fear grips her again as a detail, Tally learned as a child, resurfaces. “Please,” She begs on the verge of tears, “Do not let my twins be the ones foretold of. Please goddess Calypso,” Tally turns her head skyward, praying to the one daughter of the Trimyrah, the gods to all Wahlkers. “I beg you kind goddess, do not let my children be the ones foretold of in The Prophecy, this I pray and nothing more.”

I. Am. American.

"Shifty" By Chuck Yeager


Shifty volunteered for the airborne in WWII and served with Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101^st Airborne Infantry. If you've seen Band of Brothers on HBO or the History Channel, you know Shifty. His character appears in all 10 episodes, and Shifty himself is interviewed in several of them.
I met Shifty in the Philadelphia airport several years ago. I didn't know who he was at the time. I just saw an elderly gentleman having trouble reading his ticket. I offered to help, assured him that he was at the right gate, and noticed the "Screaming Eagle," the symbol of the 101st Airborne, on his hat.
Making conversation, I asked him if he'd been in the 101st Airborne or if his son was serving. He said quietly that he had been in the 101st. I thanked him for his service, then asked him when he served, and how many jumps he made.
Quietly and humbly, he said "Well, I guess I signed up in 1941 or so,
and was in until sometime in 1945 ..." at which point my heart skipped.

At that point, again, very humbly, he said "I made the 5 training jumps at Toccoa, and then jumped into Normandy . . . do you know where Normandy is?" At this point my heart stopped. I told him "yes, I know exactly where Normandy is, and I know what D-Day was." At that point he said "I also made a second jump into Holland , into Arnhem ." I was standing with a genuine war hero ... and then I realized that it was June, just after the anniversary of D-Day.

I asked Shifty if he was on his way back from France , and he said "Yes... And it 's real sad because, these days, so few of the guys are left, and those that are, lots of them can't make the trip." My heart was in my throat and I didn't know what to say.
I helped Shifty get onto the plane and then realized he was back in coach while I was in First Class. I sent the flight attendant back to get him and said that I wanted to switch seats. When Shifty came forward, I got up out of the seat and told him I wanted him to have it, that I'd take his in coach.

He said "No, son, you enjoy that seat. Just knowing that there are still some who remember what we did and who still care is enough to make an old man very happy." His eyes were filling up as he said it.
And mine are brimming up now as I write this.

Shifty died on Jan. l7, 2012 after fighting cancer.
There was no parade.
No big event in Staples Center .
No wall-to-wall, back-to-back 24x7 news coverage.
No weeping fans on television.
And that's not right!

Let's give Shifty his own memorial service, on line, in our own quiet way.

Rest in peace, Shifty. Chuck Yeager, Maj. General [ret.]
P.S. I think that it is amazing how the "media" chooses our "heroes" these days...