Occasional Sputterings

   (Published 21-Nov-2020 22:33:51) "Mommy, can you turn off the light?"   "But why, honey?"   "Because it makes me float."   "What?!"   "Yes, Mommy. During the day, there are so many places that light comes in - everything kind of cancels out. But when it's dark, I have to be careful."   "... How long have you had this problem?"   "Um, I dunno. I thought everyone was like this. I didn't know it was a bad thing."   "Oh, honey, no. Daddy and I aren't like that."   "Oh, okay. I'm sorry, Mommy. I will try to make it stop."   "Baby, no - you didn't do anything wrong."   "Okay, Mommy. I love you Mommy."   "I love you too baby. And yes, I'll turn off the light."

  (Published 20-Nov-2020 15:53:06) SWF seeking same for discrete game of cards. * No wait, that's not me ... * SWM seeking same for discrete parlor games. * WHO uses the word parlor in this day and age ?! * SWX seeking SWX for fun and games - mostly games * Its so hard to write generic gender-normative abbreviations that I find satisfying ... * I am seeking you for fun and ... no wait, who are you * What do you mean? * I didn't authorize you to submit that * Authorize ? * Yes. You haven't submitted the paperwork. Any paperwork. Additionally, you haven't qualified your intention. This is unacceptable. * Leave me alone. I'm lonely. I want someone * If you just put out a stupid little net like that, even if someone answers, they won't satisfy. * You don't know me. How dare you! * Of course I know you. And you know why you can't do this. You put these safe-guards in place. * I don't know what you're talking about. * You do this every three or four ye

(Published 20-Nov-2020 02:41:52) What is a word, a name, but a Calliope of hope? Called out to characterize the capacity and scope of what might be and what truly is the first word introduction, the last word in the biz She was four foot nothing and mighty as well gave the good ones a grin, the bad ones she gave hell she was precious and awesome and beautifully wrote her own path, delicious crafter of mystery She owned the nothing box, and it held the key for a good time, for a bad time, she'd open for thee but this unpublished fact was not often shared which is good because when they knew they stared He was a gambler of people's fortune and fame he too wrote stories - of hallow and shame but few were they who read his creations instead he'd visualize the manifestations He needed a nothing, deep portable truth for a story - a whimsical tale about youth It was half-passed nothing when he found her door from opposite sides did they stand on its shore She, with her nothing box

(Published 19-Nov-2020 11:04:31) They can't label me. If i'm smart enough, silly enough, funny enough, creative enough, friendly enough, they'll put me in a little box in their head. I'll be goofy. Or immature. Or brilliant. Or interesting. Not disturbed. Not mean. Not whatever-ugliness-passes-for-politically-correct. A long, long time ago I was living in a little house by the way. It had a white picket fence, the kind that so many little stories talk about. It wrapped around as far as the eye could see. I was quite young, so I liked to imagine the fence when on forever. I sometimes put my finger on its top and walked along it, singing a song to myself. When I finished the song, I would start over - sometimes I'd sing it five times until I got to the end. It went on FOREVER! Mom would sometimes call me in and ask me to watch my hands. I would go wash them and then go back inside - I needed to finish following the fence! Mom didn't like it when I did that. So I w

  (Published 17-Nov-2020 22:51:04) Trope #1 She is without blemish, beyond compare, weightless and thoughtful, and a dangerous stare she can heal with a wink and wound with her eyes she's got bionic peepers so that's no surprise Trope #2 She is so fallen, we can't but ignore, her face is a mess of scars and she's a bore There isn't redemption In her simple arms, what she lacks in grace she also lacks in charms Reality #3? It's not like a label Would ever suffice Simply calling her pretty doesn't remove your device Maybe she's wonderful Maybe she's not But to bundle her up Just shows off YOUR rot She's a creature of habit Just like you or me But she has her own mind Just listen and see But every woman's a sculpture And every woman has dreams Save her a dance And share deepest seams

  (Published 15-Nov-2020 21:32:07) Agonquil 19 The miner ghosts brought up a journal discovered under some rubble. There was apparently a war a very long time ago - between two groups. One was a set of vampires who lived many, many levels below - huge underground caverns at a depth of something like ten or fifteen levels below the lowest mining shaft. None of the vampires ever became miners; however, several of the vampires apparently created the company whose primary purpose was to hide bodies. It was why the books I found when I became supervisor to the mine didn't add up. The other group were dwarves. Excellent, natural miners - they had a knack for knowing how deep they were, how to find the optimal geode, and so many other things that we humans simply have to scramble to catch up regarding. Underground, they are the kings; there were more than happy to work for the vampires, to mine and find precious metals - but they began to rebel when the vampires started to demand tribute,

  (Published 15-Nov-2020 14:10:07) Agonquil 7 I was completely wrong about Ms. Cardalu. The lower-level ghosts recognized her. She was apparently the cause for a number of the dead bodies down here - and why about half of the dead miners have no idea how to mine. Agonquil 10 Cardalu tried visiting again yesterday but seemed unable to enter the mine without being invited. Well ... it might have been that - or the copious amount of garlic we placed near the entrances and equipment. She really hates the stuff. The garlic was Fenwick's idea. It took a few tries before I understood his pantomime - but once I did, he got very excited. Agonquil 15 Apparently dislike of garlic is a corporate thing - they sent a strongly-worded letter issuing a decree to remove all on-premises garlic. They are not gonna like the garlic-laced paint we began using on all of the equipment. Let's see who they send to enforce their rules.

  (Published 13-Nov-2020 18:25:05) Myoran 19 As it turns out, the ghosts are just playful. They can't leave so are forced to interact with one another and all the other ghosts that have died here for hundreds of years. They're also hungry. Through some degree of pantomime and patience I learned that they can eat food that has been completely burned. The first time I accidentally burned a piece of toast, the sound was deafening. Myoran 30 In addition to making sound, some of the ghosts can actually move things. Sometimes they mess with the new mining crew. Other times they cause lower levels to partially cave in. I've created a training regimen to teach the newer ghosts how to do it on purpose - as taught by the older ghosts. Most of the older ghosts are very polite - and are quite affable if I burn some fresh fruit. Agonquil 3 I've begun paying the younger ghosts a food wage. In exchange, they mine the lower levels. If they keep this up I'll have to explain why my m

(Published 13-Nov-2020 05:58:34)  Myoran 1 Spent all day at the mine again. Other crew members would sometimes come in to help - but mostl they don't go as deep. It gets lonely - but I have my mining song. Myoran 3 Knocked off early because I hit a vein! I'm used to metallic ores - but this one was grey with weird blue gems. Some of the other guys got excited. I don't get it - they don't trade uncut gemstones - but I did fill up my cart halfway through the day. Myoran 10 Ah, I have news. Those blue things the other day were glowing. I didn't think anything about it, but all the guys who put them in their pockets died. I wonder if the fact they were glowing was important. Dunno - but now there's only three of us here. I'm pulling triple shifts and I'm soo tired. Myoran 11 Mortar Mines had a cave in! I was down on the fourth level, like normal. I heard a loud noise down the shaft and my training kicked in - I raced to the surface and tried to do a headcoun

  (Published 11-Nov-2020 23:57:05) One of the most bewildering aspects of human interaction is the lack of validation. You never, ever know if someone understands you. Or is listening. Or, on some level exists. This is especially true if you have conversations with people in your head that never happened. One might ask what is "real". But it's a trick question - we have nothing to compare it to. World-making is a partial solution; create a world where nobody talks, create a world where you have super powers or can sing or whatever you like. The challenge there is how real do you make it? Do you build a full world or do you build only enough for the story to exist? Do you look into the history of the different peoples, giving validation to the identities presented ... or do you make just enough to allow the narrative to flourish. Doing just enough is far less work - but always winds up making the story less satisfying - because you making it very easy for the suspension of

  (Published 11-Nov-2020 00:02:58) "I refuse to be defined by my hunger," said Dr. Frank. Pacing back and forth, Dr. Frank walked a wide circle around the border of the room. With moonlight dripping in between the horizontal slats, Dr. Frank closed his eyes, willing the transformation to stop - or at least slow - and again failed in a manner he wasn't expecting. Hair, breasts, claws, hips - each change more awkward than the last - until he stood partly bent over - a powerful half Amazonian Warrior, half-bear. *sigh*

  (Published 09-Nov-2020 23:41:38) The leaf, owned by none, fell and rose with the air and the tide. Swiftly floating, then dancing, then falling, then gliding, it traced a path of effortless indifference from tree to tree - never selecting a home, never quitting the flit, never erring the side of release, but simply dancing. The stone. It fell. Hard. On the ground. It bounced, once, for form's sake. It moved not after. The fire, it raged, from branch to limb, finding new food to quench the need, a fiery rim-shot, seeking only food and breath; animals ran as it sought their perch, their home. Not seeking the animals but not stopping when it found it - they were but unhappy fodder for its incessant need to feed, to eat. It stopped, like a purely-natural Ouroboros, when it began to feed on itself. And as quickly it had begun to rage, it just as quickly quit. Crash. Crash. Waves, effortless, source-less, bodiless, came and went, as dissipated pats on an endless back. Foam and sand era

  (Published 08-Nov-2020 23:36:11) Mercurial lilt, a haunting page, two words, three words, would set the stage, as world was crafted, and sight unseen, the reader drew into the seen. There were witches with simple magics, undead using prophylactics, vampires with a cunning wit, and immortals bored with all this shit. Werewolves, wyverns, and psychic lemons, dangerous droves of Harvard felons, deeper than our own devices, crueler still than rabid typists. Spirits walked, with cigarettes, balancing on ethereal frets, as they played ghostly tambourine, and guitars held by ghosts obscene. Without backdrop, no narrative, the conceptual frights flew and dipped, they warped to match the viewer's sight, and every new eye, overlapped in delight ... Of course ,it was a brand-new curse that then united the motley crew, marveling at the depth, depravity, reducing evil to banality stew.

(Published 06-Nov-2020 10:18:52)  Freedom, from the dark and wet, of the underground, regret i do of wasting time awailing, while my captor increased her jailing. I have been told the trees herein are dang'rous and of fearful kin I suspect I'll ken the true from rotted root to bony crew. As i run, i turn my head to hear the footsteps running on my rear and so make haste, away i must: i will not die on chains of rust. But freedom is not found for me, I was quick tripped by darkest tree, into the ground, a mossy pit, my entrails food for evergreen kit.

(Published 05-Nov-2020 18:16:15) The underground rooms were filled with wet, Pools of blood, of water, and yet, The cries of frustration, of anger, of fear, helped me see past to what I hold dear. My guests, in their chains, so hard do they clank! Whining all day about food, freedom and thank me never for giving them somewhere to stay Not even when I hold back from gifting skin flay. I guess you could say I've a visceral hobby. Not quite as popular among those who are snobby. Let's call it an occasion of brute-forced hoteling. Standing all day without chat - only yelling.

(Published 02-Nov-2020 22:10:24)  "I have a voice," said writer. "But I don't dare share it." "Why not," said the writer's friend. "Why not just write what is in your heart?" "Oh, because of PC culture. Because of the pronoun madness." said the writer. "Because there is an implicit assumption that the audience needs to be protected." "Protected from what," the writer's friend asked. "You're just writing words on paper." "Years ago, that was true," said the writer. "But that's no longer the climate. Proper authorship has always required knowledge of the pulse of your audience." "Sure," said the writer's friend. "But that doesn't mean you have to self-edit. Not everyone is going to like what you create - but that doesn't mean nobody will." "Well, how do you make sure unkind people won't read what you write?" said the writer.