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

Strange things have been happening lately to the cremated remains of some folks. Granted, there's probably been stranger things happen to people's remains, but, you don't often hear of it. About a week ago, I came across an article concerning a box labeled "Grandma's Urn" left at a Goodwill Store near Flint, Michigan. Now, I know Goodwill is apt to take most anything. The whole "one man's trash is another man's treasure" is often taken literally by patrons eager to empty their back closets, broom closets, skeleton-stuffed cupboards, etc.... but, an urn? More specifically, grandma's urn???  Who'd even think of dropping off their relative at a charity shop? Is it perhaps someone's hope that another unfortunate soul might want a little portable grandma to keep them company? Tonight, I came across a slightly more disturbing article concerning the cremated remains of someone's father. Jennie Spooner, of Amityville (we'll le...

Read an article today on Kurt Vonnegut's newly released, While Mortals Sleep , out last month--- to my knowledge, his third posthumously released work and one can only hope, it will not be his last. This comes only several months after the release of Mark Twain's Autobiography---kept under wrap s for 100 yrs per the author's own explicit wishes. And there have been so many other posthumously released works---- some that spring to mind, Stieg Larrson's Millennium Series (Girl Who....) trilogy, Robert B. Parker's Painted Ladies , Douglass Adams' Salmon of Doubt ....but there have been so, so many others. It is so tragic that death can cut short the life of someone who still has so much to say to the world. These artists have given themselves to the world in the form of their printed words. And the world certainly believes these artists belong to it. At least with the posthumously released works, it feels a little like we have not yet lost the dear friends...

Let's kick it.... Dude this place is kickin'.... Man that test kicked my ass.... So many meanings from so small a word. My brain has been thoroughly medicated with Nyquil for the last 24 hours. And I found during the few moments when I wasn't unconscious or coughing up another portion of my fragile lungs through my raw throat, that strange things swirled in my mind. The strange and random idea I latched onto this evening was the multiple meanings we as humans assign to the same word. It's no wonder that non-English speaking individuals have so much trouble learning our language----where a seemingly insignificant word can have 15 different meanings, which can only be determined by the context in which it was spoken. The most frustrating part of our language has to be context. If you can't understand the context in which the word was spoken, then how will you determine the meaning?? This is even more complicated when one realizes that the same word can have...

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary..." Today marks 202 years since the birth of Edgar Allan Poe. Had he survived more than his 40 short years, one can not imagine the depths his darkness might have reached. He was the godfather of macabre fiction, the grandfather of the short story and the credited progenitor of the detective-fiction genre. Death followed him like an ever-present shadow, taking more than its fair share of loved ones from his side more quickly than it should. And leaving nothing for him but the bitter, empty, hollow of despair. But, instead of hiding from or denying the tragedies he endured, Poe chose to wrap his emotions in the twists of plot--- giving voice to his personal demons and a refuge for others as they wrestled with their own. There have been very few creative avenues that haven't been touched by the genius of Edgar Allan Poe--- from poetry to fiction, from art to movies--- his stories have lent themselves rea...

Tonight marks the completion of another round of contest-entering. Two stories were submitted, one to the Once Written website, for their Midnight Hour "Halloween" short story competition....the other was a Flash Fiction piece submitted to the WOW! (women on writing) Website. After the initial rush that I had hit the "submit" button and could in no way retrieve what I had sent out, the realization that other contest deadlines were impending invaded. As I pulled 3 more stories out of my pile for the next 3 contests--- all of which have an October 1st deadline--- I suddenly realized something about my writing....... I have an increasingly morbid fixation on death.... Every story I've ever written, ever thought of, has been centered around death---- the tragic death, the lonely death, the vengeful death, the grievous death, the hopeful death--- if there can be a "hopeful" death.... I'm not sure where my writing disposition comes from, but, i...

Death. The end. The final curtain call. The endpoint of our finite existence. The one thing we want the most to avoid, but the only thing from which we cannot escape. It is the one thing we can have absolutely no control over-- and this uncontrollable aspect is what produces the immense fear that overcomes us all when we are at last faced with its coming. The death of a loved one, a family member, a friend, brings so many things to the surface that for so long may have been hidden-- the regrets, the betrayals, the guilt, the anguish. We are at once reminded of our own mortality...our own tenuous hold on life...our own fragile finger-hold to this life, slick with sweat, sliding away from us with every breath. Death will always be there for us, waiting around the corner, holding a place for us at eternity's table..... "Because I could not stop for Death-- He kindly stopped for me--"

So, I've been pondering an idea for a "short" fiction competition in December. There won't be any word about the last contest I entered until October, so what better way to pass the time than by preparing another piece for the next contest. I've never really limited my writing by classifying it to any specific genre, but I have found that most of what I write has a definite bent toward magical realism....more specifically, the darker side of magical realism. Is there such a thing as the macabre magical realism genre??? I don't normally consider myself overly preoccupied with death, but it does have a strong role in most of the themes of my writing. I've mostly attributed it to my upbringing. There aren't too many children that I know of that spent their formative years wandering the halls and rooms of a skilled-patient nursing home. But the lonely, pathetic halls of such a place is exactly where my brother and I spent many an after-school hour, wai...