From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

I've settled my heart in the memory of your sigh, the subtle caress of your lips. I've eased my mind's worry in the warmth of your smile, the soft embrace of your kiss. But, the time of our parting has been of a length, that I scarce can recall your words' sound. And, I fear in the depths of this consuming absence, your passions withheld, your spirit's now bound. I have not the strength to fight such a foe, as wild and untamed as the sea. I have not the will to stand at your door, and demand your decision to be, As one or the other, the sea or my love, I know I would fail to win thee. My only request, when you've ventured enough, Remember! And, return unto me.

Assigned Genre-- Romantic Comedy Assigned Location-- A Hair Salon Assigned Object-- A Box of Tissues Word Limit-- 1000 Time Limit-- 48 hours A night in before the night out As Friday night routines go, ours has become quite the sacred ritual. And, here we are again, Amy, Ella, Kenneth, Bruce and me—the five hopefuls—busy performing our weekly rite, with more hope than we should probably allow ourselves.   Sharon’z Stylez: Salon and Boutique , the name was Kenneth’s idea, mostly, only a minor tweak to his original idea. Not sure how much business a hair salon with the name, Sharon’z Stylez for Slutz and Stiffz would draw .   “What? It’s catchy!” Always Kenneth’s defense. Five chairs, one long and well-lit mirror, five friends and a couple shared bottles of wine, the occasional bottle of hair dye and enough pheromone-laced cologne/perfume to set the local zoo into a midnight orgy—a typical Friday night. Thank God we’d had sense enough to post a strict five o’clock

I want to move you with my words, let my thoughts run through your veins. I want to tell you all the stories, give you the secrets to the game.  I want to show you where the time stops, and holds itself inside. I want to let you feel the depth in which the universe confides. Through me you'll see the darkness fade, all fears will fall away. Through me you'll hear the night wind as it trips along to day. Through me you'll know what depth you have, how far your heart can soar. Through me you'll sense the future, in the ghosts you once adored. For you, the worlds will open, the ragged path an easy task. For you, the heavens whisper, all our hopes have come at last. For you, I give my heart, my soul, without the endless strife. For you, I give my everything, my hopes, my dreams, my life.

There are secrets we fight to find. There are burning questions that drive us into manic episodes, frenzied and frazzled, hoping we might learn the answers. Some answers we stumble upon quickly, easily. This boosts our fragile ego, convincing us that we could find all the answers to the universe, if given enough time. We are blinded by our own magnificence and don't think for a second that the answers came so quickly for a reason. What if there are buffer questions? What if the answers you've 'found' were set before you to find... so that you might be distracted by their shiny brilliance, by your own shiny brilliance? There are secrets we fight to find because they aren't meant to be found. Answers that are better left unspoken. What horrors would be unleashed on the world if there were no mysteries in the universe? What horrors would mankind unleash with the knowledge of the universe at its fingertips?

Weaving dreams of beguiling gold, a future's price for happiness. What secrets do you, determined, hold? asks the summer wind's soft caress. A guarded name, a hidden hope. Spinning wheels clutching time, grasping straw that falls away, What dreams may come, we soon may find, won't recall at end of day. A cherished life, a memory lost.

So, there's this nifty little community called  NYC Midnight . For the last few years, they've sponsored a Flash Fiction Challenge. I missed the deadline to register last year by a day, so I was more than determined to get promptly registered this year---- well, I almost missed it again. In fact, I think I slid in with only a couple of hours to spare. But, in the realm of deadline challenge writing, hours equate centuries of time. I registered, and waited. Not until the exact stroke of midnight on the start of the challenge weekend do we know what we will be writing. Everybody starts on a "blind", as it were, even-playing field. When the hammer falls and the emails are sent, a countdown clock begins--- it's quite ominous actually, one feels the pressure of saving the world as the clock ticks down the seconds. 48 hours. That's it. Think you can save the world in 2 days? Oh, but wait... Just like any other dramatic hostage, 'fate-of-the-world-in-yo

Nifty little interview... about yours truly ... posted on the Bluebell Books blog--- fyi: you'll have to scroll down past the picture of the kitteh sleeping on the bookcase   linked here Such a great group of people! Such an honor!

I've been out of the blogosphere for a few days. Seems there are times when I can't focus my mind on the task at hand, as it were. Or, like now, something happens that gives me pause--- a pause that often interferes with my mental day-to-day workings. About 5 days ago, riding home with my husband and father, we happened upon a traffic back-up. For the fifteen minutes or so that we crawled along the highway, we speculated about what had caused it. Minutes later, we were deafened by the sound of sirens flying past us--- and we knew it was a wreck. We pass them everyday...cars pulled over on the side of the road, fenders dented, doors crushed... rubber-necking passers causing more of a hold up than the wreck itself. The wreck that day was different. As we finally came upon the scene, my stomach sank. It wasn't a "car" wreck. Sprawled across the two-lane highway--- a motorcyclist lay--- his twisted bike in one lane, his twisted body in the other lane. And as

I strolled along with Shakespeare, beneath a full, midsummer's moon. Caught fireflies with Steinbeck, though our parting was too soon. I hitched a ride on Twain's raft, drifting lazily downstream. Sipped sweet tea with Faulkner, and lost my mind to dreams. I took a quest with Tolkien, he has such traveling friends. Solved puzzles with Conan Doyle, even the master can pretend. I fell asleep with Hawthorne, clutching tight to every breath. Dreamt dark and twisted nights with Poe, weeping soft for childhood's death.

Here is a story about a small monkey, and the fun times he has on the beach. How he loves to chomp chips made from bananas, dancing outside the ocean waves' reach. He lives in the coziest, tall jungle tree, High above the safari rabble, from dry shells of coconuts, his music he plays, drowning out all the human's loud babble.

We were honored, last night, to have New York Times, bestselling author, Brad Thor come in for booksigning. He is promoting his newest release, Full Black , a fast-paced thriller in the continuing adventures of Scot Harvath. Not my preferred genre, this military/political thriller has the page-turning, heart-stopping, edge-of-your-seat tension down to an art. For anyone with a penchant for espionage, global threats, or the American good-guy triumphing over International evils, this is a must-read. For anyone looking for a slower-paced, character-centric piece, you may want to give this a pass. This is only the second Brad Thor book I've ever read, so I don't profess to be an expert on his material. Though of the two, I believe Full Black was better written. Thor did allow the reader to see a wider range of emotions from his main character, Scot Harvath-- and I've heard, from Thor fans, the character arc in Full Black is more pronounced than any other Harvath bo