Hello! This is another challenge set forth by the great Chuck Wendig. Once again, my gorgeous Melon goddess tore apart herself with me... the idea behind this prompt was so simple... but goodness me it was difficult. Also once again... I have no idea what this is 🤣🤣🤣 it is obviously fictional and ... fantasy...… Continue reading Into The Raw
The dirt felt good under my fingernails. Cleansing, somehow. Washing me of my sins. Not that I thought it was a sin...
The aliens came in ships Big hulking things Moving slowly We don't know from where But it was from afar
I was talking to one of my friends this morning about how to get back into the swing of things. She asked me how I got my groove back after I escaped Rock Bottom. And it took a while, but, in the end what has helped me is blogging and abstract art. Quite often when… Continue reading Thoughts on how abstract art can help you
I cannot decide which novel to concentrate on. I literally write a paragraph of one then change my mind and switch. Please, cyberfam, advise me on which novel I should put my efforts into. Epic fantasy series, dark, piratey, demi-gods and goddesses, strange portals that cross over to our world, backstabbing, people getting stabbed in… Continue reading I need your help/advice
As I return to my pour table this week after our many travels, I have found myself asking myself "but what does this piece say?" My art normally says nothing unless my medium is words, because I choose not to use living subjects. But this is of course not what I fucking mean, is it? What I mean is "what am I trying to say?"
The books I've read have always explained blood as smelling "coppery" or "metallic." They're not wrong, but they're not right either. Yes. I could detect that old-penny tang in the air, but there were other things too. They never mention the rot of it. The butcher shop meatiness. The piss and shit part that will undoubtedly be there. Because if there is so much blood you can smell it, then someone is either dead or about to be. A bandaid would no longer help them. Blood doesn't just smell like loose change. I should know. I was covered in it.
She jumped into the passenger seat, never looking away from his dark eyes. She might have to keep them. She had a jar that would suit them perfectly.
Chapter two of my short story Milk
A blog post where I ramble about finding new ink slingers and word smiths to stalk