bloggity blog, writing

Yet…

I miss the way you look when you are staring at something you love

The awe in your eyes

The gentle curve of an alomst-smile on your lips

Your brow smooth, worryless.

Me: Sally

You: Jack

I miss your gentle touch

The way you gather me up in your arms…

Me: a dandelion seed

You: a sweet, summer breeze

I miss the passion and the heat of you

Hot enough to start a fire but never burning my skin

Me: Morticia

You: Gomez

I miss the look in your eyes…

I miss the smile on your face when you see me.

As if I am a happy surprise

A gift you did not expect

And that smile is the special one you only show me.

Only my eyes have seen…

Me: Hermione

You: Ron

I miss your hand on my lower back.

Me: the canvas, blank, waiting

You: the paint, colour, life

I long for all these things.

And more…

All these things I have never had.

Because, I have not met you,

Yet…

Our paths have not crossed

Destiny has not pulled us together.

There must be more for us to do

More for us to learn

Apart

How do you miss someone you have never met?

Love

Amberley

PS this is in no way about goat-dragon.

I miss goat-dragon the way an insect misses pesticide. The way a snowman misses the desert. The way a dog misses its intestinal parasites.

Not at all…

FYI: This is the first time I have written about love in a long time… maybe something has healed. Maybe something has changed. I dunno. But if you made it this far, thank you for reading my terrible poetry. All the love…

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bloggity blog, writing

I need your help/advice

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.

  1. Epic fantasy series, dark, piratey, demi-gods and goddesses, strange portals that cross over to our world, backstabbing, people getting stabbed in the back/front/side/face & love.
  2. Sci-fi, utopian-dystopia, MC is a kind of bounty hunter kinda sorta not really. Lots of action, aliens and swearing. Maybe a little love. Maybe inter-species lesbians… not sure yet.
  3. New adult novel about a shock artist and his assistant. Think “2 weeks notice” with Sandy Bullock if Huge Grant’s character was a Pollock/Marilyn Manson/Collin Christian… with more sex, drugs, cars and rock n roll and cakes.
  4. They all sound terrible. Go get a real job. Please burn all of your notebooks.

Please and thank you.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog

Life-upcycling

I am currently walking up and down my hallway. I’m not pacing, exactly…

As part of my life-upcycling that is in progress, I’m trying to get fit again.

It is too hot to walk outside and I have no one to look after the kids. I don’t have the money to join a gym and I know I wouldn’t go if I did.

I don’t want to do nothing. As tempting as it may be to curl up in bed and let myself drift further down the spiral. That is not what I want to let myself do.

So, I watch my FitBit as I race up and down the halls like a manical cat on heat… with out all the screeching of course.

Well, maybe a little screeching.

It is ironic actually. My destination-less wandering is a lot like my old life. A lot of movement nowhere. Floundering. Swimming through pitch.

Except this is giving my legs a workout.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog, writing

The danger of undeserved power

Prologue

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 band aid would no longer help them.

Blood doesn’t just smell like loose change. I should know. I was covered in it.

The final chapter

Pain was what I felt.

There was no shock. His behaviour no longer shocked me.

It was bad, what he did, don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t the worst. This was a Tuesday morning type of hit. Not, say, a Friday night when he knew I’d have, at least, the weekend to recover so no one could see.

Some of you may ask, what did I do to deserve it? Cause I’ve heard that one before. I must’ve started it. Asked for it in some way.

And you’d be fucking right. I did something that pissed him off. I don’t regret it neither.

I bought the wrong ice cream.

I had stood in the super market, staring into the ice cream freezer at the ice cream I knew he liked. Trying to make a decision, I fiddled with the six dollars in very small change that sat fat in my pocket and jingled loudly, sounding out the joyous accompaniment to my poverty.

I could afford to get one tub of what he wanted but we’d have not much else to eat. And he’d never share the ice cream with me. I was fat enough, he’d say.

Or I could buy milk, bread and the cheap plain stuff. I knew I could make it nice for him. I thought we’d have some Oreos in the back of the cupboard, maybe some chocolate sauce. I could turn it nice like the expensive stuff. And that way, we could at least eat toast until his pay day.

I thought it was a good idea.

While I lay on the floor, feeling my lip swell and pulse, watching my blood puddle on the linoleum, I realised I was wrong.

He said nothing as he stormed away from me, fists clenched as if he were ready to take another swing.

I stayed on the floor. Unmoving. Trying not to cry. Crying only made it worse. Playing dead. If I don’t move he can’t see me.

I sneaked a peek as he sauntered around the kitchen, his boxing ring. He slammed open the freezer door so hard that it made me flinch and I doubted it would ever close properly again. Taking out the white and black tub, he threw it at the kitchen window with a thunderous, wet crash which made me flinch again.

The ice cream, half liquefied because our freezer was on the fritz, sprayed across the kitchen bench, vanilla white tears streaked down the cob-webbed window.

I still cowered as he stalked around the kitchen, breath like fire burning, he couldn’t get it out of his lungs quick enough.

I, a mouse, a small creature, heart murmuring be still, be still, be still. But, for the first time, I do not see a cat in front of me. I do not see a tiger, a lion, a wolf.

I see just a man.

And even if he were an animal, he would be a Chihuahua. All bark and some bite, enough to draw blood. But no longer enough to eat me alive.

If my heart pounds be still then it is the heart of a bear and he heard my roar. And I will not be still any longer.

He had power over me for a lifetime and I will give him no more.

It may not have been the worst time, just a Tuesday morning, but it was the last time.

I waited till the blood stopped pumping to call an ambulance. I had to dirty a tea towel to use my phone. I won’t lie. I enjoyed watching him die.

The cleaver in my clenched fist, slick with his blood, no longer shakes.

Power is not something that can be taken, it must be given, even if it seems stolen at times. But there is a secret they – the fake wolves, fake lions, fake predators – don’t want us to know.

We can take our power back.

Short story for Chuck Wendig’s Fiction Challenge

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please seek help. Go to the police. Do not pass go. No two hundred dollars for you. Go now. Today. Because this bullshit has to stop.

To put it into perspective for you, here is a quote from Huffington Post.

The number of American troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq between 2001 and 2012 was 6,488. The number of American women who were murdered by current or ex male partners during that time was 11,766. That’s nearly double the amount of casualties lost during war.

And this just for America. And this number has not improved. It is only getting worse.

Silence about domestic violence can be deadly. So please, please, please speak out. #notviolentnotsilent

And don’t resort to the lengths that my character went to. This is a work of fiction and by no means an instruction to murder a spouse. Abusive or not. No stabby stabby.

If you are unsure if your partner is abusive, I will attach something below that shows the typical behaviour of DV and DA situations. If any of the items on that list are checked please call the police, ask for help, stay safe.

You don’t have to walk on eggshells forever. You don’t have to be another statistic. You can have a life again. You have the power. You are stronger than you think.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog, When I am empress

When I am empress – parenting

So, yesterday, I took my kids down to the hotel pool.

There were so many kids. And with kids there are parents.

Walking into the pool area, there were about twenty poolside chairs, most of which were taken up with people. Seven chairs were without butts but six had towels. I take the only free chair which happens to be the one farthest from the pool but with splash range of the festy-warm spa water.

One thing I want to put out there, I’m not big on the idea of communal anything. Hostels are my nightmare, food courts make me feel physically ill and public pools… double both of those.

Sitting far from my own kids, I am forced to be close to other peoples children.

Most kids are cool. Kids are like regular humans except tiny and insane. If adults acted the way children act, they would have a one-way holiday to nice padded room.

Sorry, I’m getting distracted… oh yeah! There was this one kid that was being a little bitch.

One child was the cutest little thing. Pig tails, chubby cheeks, all the cuteness. All she wanted to do was be friends with bitch-child.

Bitch-child had that look about her. I know, I know… she is just a child and I am being a bit of a cunt but if you have kids and have spent time at their school you probably know what I mean. If you don’t then maybe your kid is one of these bitch-children. Soz.

So, this cutie-pie just kept asking bitch-child “do you want to be my friend?”

Sweet, right?

Yeah, well, bitch-child would say “only if you turn the bubbles on for me.”

Cutie-pie would get out and just before she would press the button, bitch-child would say “if you put the bubbles on I won’t be your friend.”

This went on for too long. If one of my children had done this, it would have happened once and that’s it. Back upstairs.

And what did bitch-child’s mum do? Diddly fucking squat.

These children are our future adults. The ones who will be our nurses, doctors, checkout chicks, food makers, etc. Not teaching them basic manners and how to treat other humans is just setting our future up for failure.

I understand that tearing your eyes away from Facebook and putting down your phone and entering the real world to discipline your children may harsh your holiday buzz or whatever but, for fuck suck! If you are a parent, then parent!

But the mother was a bitch too! She was the one who had spread her pool shit out over the other six fucking chairs!

When I am empress, all of her kind will be drawn and quartered. Well, depending on breeding age. If they have not yet breed then they will be chemically castrated.

My people will both love me and fear me…

I will also give strict testing for general courtesy, etiquette, ninja skills, horse riding, and, of course grammar/punctuation.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog

Thoughts on hotel rooms and single-parenting

I’m in a hotel room. Again.

No tent for us today. There is something to be said for spending some time in hotel rooms.

I can’t help but think of the people who were in the room before me. The good times had in the room, the fights, the sex, the sadness, the car racing. Yep. We are staying at a hotel on a car racing track.

I wonder how many women have been paid for the use of their orifices in this room.

I wonder about the litres of alcohol and the crazy amounts of drugs that have definitely been consumed in this room.

Hotels seem to be these modern day Sodoms where all the unholy things can happen.

Yet I am sharing my room with my two kids and about forty plush toys.

Oh and any single parents who are also authors or artists out there that actually get any work done and still get all meals into their kids bellies and interact with their kids… yep… kudos to you. Cause this shit is hard.

The old me may have envied the person who stayed in this room before me having all the alcohol and acrobatic sex they could squeeze in between check in and check out. But right now, there is no place I’d rather be.

Love

Amberley