Long Live the King of Scars

King of Scars by Leigh Bardugo

“Each spine had been an open door away whispering, Come in, come in. Here is the land you’ve never seen before. Here is a place to hide when you’re frightened, to play when you’re bored, to rest when the world seems unkind.” Leigh Bardugo, King of Scars.

There has never been a quote that has resonated with me as soundly as the one above by Leigh Bardugo. For a moment, she wasn’t describing the youth of the title character Nikolai Lantsov. She was describing me, a perfect stranger. No book had ever lost patience with me. No book had ever abandoned me, or been frustrated by me. Books would not laugh at you for wearing the wrong outfit, hairstyle, or expression on your face. Books were solace, safety, and adventure all wrapped into one, and Leigh Bardugo hit the nail directly on the head. 

If you know me, you know I’m pretty much late to everything book related. There should be no surprise then that this weekend was spent rushing to finish King of Scars before going to meet the Goth Queen herself on the last stop of her Ninth House tour in Brooklyn, NY even though this book came out forever ago. I spent the weekend being driven around by my fiance so that the story wouldn’t potentially be spoiled when hearing Bardugo speak at Murmrr on Saturday evening. Unfortunately I wasn't able to finish it until Sunday, but luckily there were no spoilers, and thank the Saints for it, because this book was worth getting to the end. 

I started this story very excited to be back in Ravka. After reading the Six of Crows duology and the Shadow and Bone trilogy, I was slightly glad that I’d read them out of order. If I’d have read the Shadow and Bone trilogy first, I don’t think I’d have gone for Six of Crows. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Nikolai at the end of Shadow and Bone, or after the end of Crooked  Kingdom, either, if we’re being honest, but I knew that I’d fell in love with the Dregs of Ketterdam and would have read anything Grisha-related to be able to see those friends again.

King of Scars satisfied a small part of the need to be with the Dregs again because of Nina, but it also allowed me to fall a little bit in love with Nikolai and Zoya, too. **Stop here if you don’t want KoS spoilers.** Nina, Nikolai, and Zoya don’t spend time together, but they’re all mourning pieces of themselves and their past. Nina’s story broke my heart, and reading the first half of the book was almost torture. Her grief and denial was substantial. I hated to be part of it, which is a total complement to Bardugo’s writing. Ny only criticism is that I didn’t believe the bisexual undertones of her relationship with Hanne. That storyline seems so unrealistic that I don’t think I can get behind it. Nina + Matthias forever. 

Nikolai was just as sassy and sarcastic as ever. He is so charismatic and charming, intelligent and unassuming that you can’t help but want to be charmed by him. I’m not sure whether it was meant to be on purpose, or if it’s just happenstance, but his charm and charisma is eerily similar to the way Bardugo describes the Darkling from Zoya’s point of view. I can’t wait to see how Bardugo wraps up these cliffhangers in the conclusion. 

There wasn’t a lot of world building in this story, which I think is good and not at all necessary after six Grishaverse stories. I think the parts she does add in are necessary, and getting to the heart of the story is more important. Stick through the first half of the book, because it is a bit slow and you’ll be expecting more action than you get, but as soon as you get into the second half of the book the wind picks up and the storm rolls in, and you’ll want to hold on for dear life as the Squallers and Tidemakers take you for a ride you won’t forget. 

Four out of five stars. Long Live the King.

"Beasts of the Frozen Sun" by Jill Criswell - Review

“Beasts of the Frozen Sun"

Jill Criswell

When we take the Green Isle, we will show them what a warrior is – a man made of ice and steel.

Man made of ice and steel. That is exactly what Criswell gives readers when she describes the Dragonmen, warriors from the faraway Iseneld, who have come to claim Glasnith for their own wicked agenda. They are fearsome and frightening soldiers lead by the Savage known as Draki, who claims to be half-human, half-god. Draki is out to steal not only the island of Glasnith, but also our heroine Lira of Stone, who is one of the Daughters of Aillira, a girl gifted by the gods. There is only one person who can help Lira defeat Draki, an Iseneld ‘beast’ named Reyker.

Lira and Reyker have a history. Years before our story starts, Lira was captured by the Dragonmen and taken hostage. Reyker, seeing Lira bound for torture at the hand of Draki, puts his own life in jeopardy and cuts her bonds to free her. He marks her with a skolar, a shield scar that will help protect her, and pushes her into the water so she can escape. Years later, he arrives back on Glasnith as the survivor of a shipwreck and Lira is the one to find him and nurse him back to health, even though she knows he is the enemy and doesn’t trust him. They must work together if either of them are going to survive the Dragonmen.

Magic and fantasy weave through Celtic and Norse history to create a beautiful story of the struggle of a people who are trying to protect themselves from invasion and oppression. Criswell builds a wonderful land for the people of her novel, using her words simply but elegantly, with just the right amount of description and none of the extraneous adjectives that readers’ eyes would glaze over.

My only criticism would be that the beginning of the novel took a smidgeon too long to get to the heart of the story. I could have used a little more action in the first 100 pages to get things moving, and there was one too many capture/escape scenes for my buy in. Hopefully because this is the author’s first novel and she’s building a world for a trilogy, these are some kinks that will be worked through in Book 1 so 2 and 3 can thrive. I can’t wait to see what happens in the next installment, which should be published by Blackstone Publishing in 2020. 4 out of 5 stars from me. #LandRforever.

The Monarch Mission Files: Conspiracy

“The Monarch Mission Files: Conspiracy” by Jenn Nixon

One of the earliest memories of my childhood was the desire to be an astronaut. I always answered as such whenever an adult would ask me the silly question of ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’. There is something to the idea of being able to escape this world, literally and figuratively, to reach the stars and uncharted territory that makes my spirits soar out of this atmosphere. That dream has always burned inside me and to this day I am drawn to the skies and beyond. After reading “The Monarch Mission Files: Conspiracy” by Jenn Nixon I’ve been able to satisfy my craving for the universe for a little while longer.

Conspiracy starts off on an Earth of the future, but we’re almost immediately off to a lunar military base. From there we travel to Mars with Mari Yosoto, Trevor Nash, and a motley crew to find the daughter of a VIP. Low and behold, the original mission leads to the discovery of an epic secret, bringing the past and the present on a collision course where the result is a matter of life and death.

This story seemed right up my alley. Nixon’s words and writing style are unassuming and simplistic, meaning that anyone would be able to pick it up and delve right in. The plot to the story, while showing layers upon layers of potential, could have gone deeper. Having not read this author before I’m hesitant to suggest that this is how all her stories flow but based on the title I’d think that this book is really just one chapter of a longer and more impressive story to come.

The characters are endearing. Mari is damaged but badass; Nash is the protector of all, not just the person he’s falling in love with. Sam is a teenager with a wicked brain for tech and Kuna is the lovable brother that we wish we all had, especially when he’s cooking breakfast. I would like to see stronger character development with Mari and Nash’s relationship, and not just her protesting the sharing of secrets and he being stubbornly patient. They have to have flaws. I’d love to see how Nixon explores their flaws in the future. I’d also like more interaction between Mari and Sam, and maybe more of Sam’s backstory as well. This world has untapped potential and I’d be interested in reading how the rest of the story unfolds.

Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge - Misbehave

She diverts her eyes, turns and backs away slowly, receding to the outlying safe zone.

The barks of demand fill the space and cloyingly linger in the air.  

“Give me.”  “I want.” “I’ll take.” “Can I get?”

The crowd finally parts, her goal in sight.  

Jumping into the fray, cutting through the sea of creatures laying in wait, she arrives at the end of the line to claim her prize.  

Plastic on plastic creates a *pop* when it enters the milky, sticky, caffeinated liquid inside. She takes a sip, swallows.  Eyes closed, she owns her guilty-pleasure delight.  

Yum.

***
I am participating in Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge. This is my first writing challenge/prompt that I've done in quite some time, so I apologize for being rusty!  

The theme this week is "Misbehave".

Also, I'm technologically inept, and couldn't figure out the linky tools so if anyone ever reads this, please let me know how I can get it to work! Thanks and enjoy!

Who are you? Do You Have Some I.D.?

I've been neglecting writing -- so much so that I made myself a goal that I would write the whole month of July, and to date I've only written two of the eighteen days and it's been the same scene, just worded differently.  I can't even believe how much I live in my own way.  I am my own worst enemy when it comes to getting things done. Sheesh.  


Anywho, I wanted to post what I've written, because it holds me accountable, and hopefully I still have some blogosphere friends interested in what I'm doing.  If not, well I can't blame you, as I've basically been M.I.A. for far too long.  If you are here... well... I love you. 


**
My heart was pounding.  I could hear the blood flowing through my ears, and my adrenaline was pumping hard.  My breaths became shallow and erratic, my palms started sweating, and I could just imagine that my pupils had dilated.  Can you feel your pupils dilate?  Isn’t that a symptom of someone high? I would have to Google that on my down time.  I was only in the midst of a panic attack, but surely with my luck, my behavior would come across suspect and I’d be taken away.

‘I can’t handle this,’ I thought to myself, struggling to control my breathing.  ‘What am I even going to say?’

As the officer made his way toward the passenger’s side of my car, I quickly ran through all the excuses I could feasibly flesh out to explain my complete and total disregard of the law:
-My dog escaped.
-I have to pee.
-I only sped up to pass someone who was carelessly driving, and that’s when you saw me.
-I unbuckled my seatbelt AFTER you pulled me over, just to get to my registration.
-That wasn’t my cell phone in my hand -- that was my G.P.S.

The feeble attempts that my pathetic brain came up with weren’t even enough to get me out of detention in middle school, let alone something regarding the police.  The cherries of the police car were physically hypnotizing, rotating back and forth like some psychedelic visual morphine designed to calm the wild beast.

“Good evening.  License and registration, please.”

The officer spoke with a tone of command, a tone more fright-inspiring than my father after getting home from work and hearing that one of my brothers had blown up a toilet seat at school earlier in the day.  I promptly handed over my documents and faced straight ahead again, hoping my obedient and submissive behavior would lend to a less severe punishment on my end.

I had to keep reminding myself to take deep breathes; it wouldn’t look good if I started to hyperventilate.  Then I definitely wouldn’t be able to continue on with my plans for the evening.  I’d probably be stuck in jail.  As it was, the officer probably thought I was high, since he’d just asked me a question twice.  Funny how your brain can process that even when it’s not paying attention.

“What brings a girl from New Jersey all the way out here to Marshall’s Creek at this hour?  Surely it isn’t the Candle Factory at this time of night,” he says with a small chuckle to himself, as if he’d just told the most hilarious inside joke all day.  Probably I was the first person he’d seen all night in this little town that modernity seemed to have left behind.

“Honestly,” I said, more under my breath than anything, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
**
If you made it this far, what do you think? Should I continue?

Family Secrets

Family Secrets

I came down the stairs covered in sweat and dust bunnies.  Cleaning out the attic is never pleasant, but more unpleasant is when you offer yourself to your grandmother in a moment of familial guilt at the weekly Friday Night Dinner.

 There I was, sitting in at the dining room table after just consuming what some would consider a feast, but my family just considers ‘dinner’, when grandma all of a sudden mentions how she’d like to clean out the attic.  The whole family nodded their heads in agreement, all acknowledging that that would be a great idea.  What I didn’t notice is one by one everyone made excuses in order to get away from the table and out of Grandma’s line of sight.  I was obviously not prepared for this, which is why it’s the next day and I’ve found myself cleaning on a Saturday morning when I’d rather be doing anything else.

The kitchen smelled of chocolate chip pancakes; Grandma’s “I know I suckered you into this project, so I’m at least going to feed you something yummy and hope that you don’t hate me for this.”  I tried to dust myself off a little before I crossed the threshold, but I’m sure it was a futile attempt.  “Grandma,’ I said, as I walked in and sat at the table, clutching an old piece of paper in my left hand, out of her eye line. 

“Yes, dear,” she said as she flipped a pancake on the griddle.  She turned to look at me, since I paused a moment to think about what I wanted to say, rather than blurt out something accusatory and/or stupid.  She prompted me again.  “What is it you wanted?”

“I came across this in map in the attic along with your photo albums from when you and grandpa were first married.  It’s in another language.  Do you understand it?”  I hoped that posing my inquisitions in an innocent way would engage her into telling me the story without actually forcing her to do it.  At first, though, I thought I’d blown it, because she turned back toward the stove, let her head hang down a little, and stayed silent for longer than I was comfortable with.

Just as I was about to say something apologetic and banish myself back to the attic, she started to speak.  It was low at first, almost like she wasn’t speaking to me, but mumbling to herself. I strained to hear her, sure that she wouldn’t continue if I asked her to repeat herself. 

“That map… that ‘treasure’ map,’ she scoffed.  “If I had known what that ‘treasure map’ had in store for us, I might not have married your Grandfather.  You know we found that map on our honeymoon?”  She finally turned to acknowledge that I was still sitting there.  Of course I was still there; I was hanging on her every word.

“What you don’t know is that your Grandfather and I were considered an arranged marriage.  We knew of each other; our families were the best of friends, an extended family of sorts.  Back in Sicily, it was normal to arrange a marriage for a child, to insure that your line would continue and you’d know the sort of people you were getting into bed with, no pun intended.  Our marriage was arranged with the idea that Marcello and I would link the families together to create a stronghold of our properties, intimidate the neighbors, that sort of thing.”

These were the lines said in movies!  Why was my grandmother telling me stories that correlate to the God Father?

“We went to Spain on our honeymoon.  It was so beautiful, but, bella, we didn’t really leave the hotel for two days!  Finally on the third day, I told your grandfather that we needed to go out and do touristy things or I was going to make the first year of our marriage a nightmare.  He didn’t need much more convincing than that, so we went out and took in the sights.  When we came back, there was this map left on the desk in our room.”  She shook her head, like she was trying to clear the clouds that fifty years had given her.

The clock struck eleven and the sound of my grandfather’s truck could be heard pulling in the driveway.  She turned her head toward the front of the house and a hint of a smile curled upon her lips. 

“This is a story for another time, love.  Your grandfather’s home.  Mind you be getting back up stairs, and put that back where you found it, okay?”

I made my way up the stairs wondering just what kind of life my grandmother had lived before we existed.

***
Thanks for reading everyone!

My Indie Ink Challenge Prompt was dilvered to me by Melissa Brodsky.  "You find an old treasure map locked away in your grandparents’ attic."  In turn, I challenged Crosshavenharpist with what she would do after she robbed a bank. 

All Part of the Plan

"All Part of the Plan"

It was just after dusk and I was cold.  I knew I should be scared, but I couldn’t stop noticing how beautiful the swirling police lights looked as they caught the falling snow.  Have you ever felt that way? Knowing you should be feeling one way, but unable to help yourself from feeling another certain type of way? I’m sure you have.  Haven’t we all?  The officer is going on and on to me about something, but I just can’t focus on his monotone drivel when Mother Nature’s beauty is falling all over the place. The snowflakes aren’t just flecks of frozen water; they’re becoming part of me.  Each one that falls and lands along my skin becomes a link in the armor, the armor I wear to protect me against the cold, hard realism forced upon me by those who haven’t embraced the Earth’s love.  They’re missing out on a beautiful world, a world that they’re blowing right by. 

***
It was just after dusk and I was cold.  Working overtime holds no appeal for me, but my wife enjoys the payout, as most women do.  I’m exhausted, I haven’t had time to breathe, let alone take care of all the human necessities, if you know what I mean.  Do you know what I mean? Have you ever felt that way? 

Here I am, just trying to keep myself straight and keep my life in order for my family, and I’ve got nothing to show for it but being overworked and under paid.  I’m tired, and I’m stuck here babysittin’ this whiteboy, high as a kite, whose ass I’ve got parked on the curb while I wait for back up.  I haven’t had time for a real meal, a shower that lasted longer than four minutes, or some quality time with my wife in God knows how long, though I’m sure she wouldn’t be too receptive to that idea anyway.  Women.  Can’t live with ‘em, ain’t that what they say? Ah, well.

***

It was just after dusk and they were cold.  Unfortunate, really, that they could not see the bigger picture.

Neither of these two understands the ramifications of their actions today, but they are great indeed. 

Here we have a junkie who, had this police officer not stopped him for a moving violation, would have caused a four car accident, killing two children, their parents, and inevitably himself. 

On the other hand, the police officer who, because he put in overtime to support his family, saved a multitude of lives, just by doing the right thing.  Good, too, because it will help him reinforce the promotion coming to him at the end of the month.

Look at the beauty in the world.  Look at all I have created.  The good and the bad, each working in tandem to create a working masterpiece that anyone would be proud to be a part of. 

This is my second week back in the Indie Ink Challege! Yay!

This week my prompt was "I know I should be scared, but I couldn't stop noticing how beautiful the swirling police lights looked as they caught the falling snow", issued by Kurt at Muzzle Diaries.  I was fortunate enough to challenge the wonderful Hannah Pratt at The Oh So Unusual Housewife, who really nailed it with a beautiful poem.  Check them both out!

"Undiscovered"

This is my first week back to Indie Ink, and I must say, I am definitely feeling a bit rusty.  Thanks a big bunch to My Plaid Pants, Runaway Sentence, and Alyssagoesbang for dragging my ass back into the swing of things. Without further ado, here goes nothing... 

"Undiscovered"

She was sitting perched on the bed when I found her in our bedroom, holding a plain white envelope, with tears in her eyes.  I wondered what she had in the envelope to make her cry, and realized just a minute too late that I already knew.  Inside that envelope was the story of us; our past, present, and future. 

She looked up at me, and the range of emotions on her face was frightening.  There was shock, pain, sadness, confusion, betrayal, and more that I couldn’t even begin to name.  The glare coming from her eyes was enough to kill.

“Chris,” she started, slowly.

“I know.  I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.

“That’s all you have to say, is ‘I’m sorry’?”  So much for starting slowly.

“I…”

“What are you sorry for? Are you sorry for the fact that I just found this accidentally?  Are you sorry for the fact that you got caught?  Or are you sorry for breaking my heart?”

I could only stand there as she shoved these rhetorical questions down my throat like poison.  The taste in my mouth made me want to vomit, but how could I explain to her that I was just doing this for us?  I couldn’t.  She wouldn’t ever understand.  She is the girl of my dreams, the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, and for some reason she likes me, too, but this would ruin us, I just know it.

“I’m sorry, I know I should have told you.  You deserve to know the truth.” 

She just looked at me, looked through me, as if I wasn’t really there anymore.

“Chris, I can’t believe you could keep something this huge from me.  You had a child.”

Yeah, I had a child.  I had a baby, the product of a rape, and an unfortunate reminder of the cretin who invaded my life forever in the span of twenty agonizing minutes.

“Sarah, I just can’t talk about it.  I couldn’t talk about it, even with you.”  I closed my eyes and silently prayed to whatever higher being was out there that she would forgive me and understand. 

You see, since we’d been trying to get pregnant, I told her that I wasn’t able to have children.

I lied. 

*** 

This week for the Indie Ink challenge, I was given “You come across an old envelope from your past. What is inside?” by GUS.  I challenged Billy Flynn with "You're in a funk; how do you get out of it?".  Check out his response *here*.

DMV - A (semi) fictional tale

Okay, Peeps, if anyone cares, I posted (about half an hour ago) whether anyone would be interested in reading my creative writing shii---stuff from last year.  Of COURSE Maid Marian immediately said yes, so for her viewing pleasure and yours, here is the first installment of my ridiculousness that was actually submitted to a professor at MSU.  (Sort of embarassing, I must admit, but whatev.)

DMV

Saturday afternoon is finally here, but do you think I’m going to be able to relax?  No.  It’s possibly the worst day to be stuck at DMV.  Division of Motor Vehicle.  It should really stand for Death of My Vacation.  Stupid registration.  How was I supposed to know that it was expired?  “Maybe you should have looked at it once or twice,” said the cop.  Stupid pig.  He’s right.  This is my fault.  I’m not admitting that to anyone, though.

Could the old lady behind the counter take any longer?  What’s the deal, twenty minutes minimum?  They should have a fast-food-drive-thru for DMV.  3 minutes or less, or your registration is free.  I think her hair is getting progressively grayer by the minute.  I know mine is.  If DMV is anything like working in the post office, I’m not surprised people say “He went postal!”.  I’d kill myself if I had to be here every day, by choice.  Jesus.  And it’s not like they have comfortable seating, oh no.  I get the privilege to stand behind Mr. Smells-Like-Old-Bleu-Cheese while he fans himself, aren’t I lucky?

Oh good, the line moved a fraction of an inch forward.   I can actually read the old bat’s name tag.  Noreen (with a smiley face).  Just wonderful, I’m one step closer to acknowledging the poly-dent that’s crusting over her pricy porcelain pincers.  I’m sure by the time I get to the front of the line, she’ll have decayed into a pile of ashes, and I’ll be forced to the back of another ridiculous line until I, too, start to decay.

Ya know what really bothers me?  The scenery.  This place is God-Awful boring and I feel like I’m in jail.  The least they could do, since they keep everyone here for hours, is to paint the walls something other than dull, depressing, gun metal gray.  Honestly, how could they stand to be here for 8 hours a day?  I’d kill myself after a day or two of this. 

Okay, I’m next.  Thank God.  Maybe I’ll be out of here before the sun goes down.  You can bet your ass I’ll never be late with my registration again… I hope.  That’s a bullshit technicality anyway.  Once your car is registered it should stay registered.  Why do you have to renew it every friggin year?  I obviously still own the car, I still pay insurance on it, why do I have to get it registered?  Previous registration should count.  If not, it should be called “re-registration”.

            “Yes, how can I help you?” Death-Warmed-Over said.  “Yes, ma’am.  I need to update my registration.  It expired,” I’m trying to be polite.  “Ok,” she said, “just sign this, give me $45 and you’re on your way.”  I look at her, stunned.  You mean this is all I have to do?  Just sign a piece of paper and hand over some money?  I had to wait over an hour for thirty seconds of polite conversation? Un-fucking-believable.

"What A Week"

 "What A Week"
Sunday night, chit chat,
Empty promises,
"Baby, I miss you"'s, and all that.
Lost on Monday, missing Tuesday,
“What’s your schedule like?" on Wednesday.
Thursdays come and go, solo,
And I got my hopes up again for a no show.
Friday, I start to forget your name.
Saturday is much the same.
Slowly built up, but quickly let down,
It’s pretty pathetic I know the routine now.
All I wanted was some attention,
But you don't even deserve honorable mention.

"Journey to the Past"

^{Indie Ink time, again, Peeps.  This week I was challenged by the most wonderful Jen O. of My Tornado Alley, who in my opinion, is more delicious than a donut.  I, in turn, challenged the Flaming Nyx, who awesomely answered my challenge Here.}

^{"Journey to the Past"}

^{We sat on the edge of the porch, my son and I.  I’ve come to appreciate the time that we have together, to be able to talk freely, and understand that our relationship has evolved over time, from parent and child to friends.  We talked of life, of the old days in the old country, and reality.  After many conversations about philosophy and love and life, I found the courage to share something with my kin, my blood, which, given different outcomes, would have changed our lives forever.}

^{“On my way home, down old Tilley Road, is where I met the love of my life.}

^{I had just come from the market, where my mother had sent me, like she did every week, to pick up the groceries that we’d need for the week.  It was always the same items, too.  I could find them as quick as anything because I now knew the store like the back of my hand.  Spaghetti, fresh mozzarella cheese, some spices, a pound of ground beef, and a bag filled with one carrot, one red onion, celery, a cucumber, and a jar of olives.} 

^{The walk to the market was long, down a winding mountain trail.  Going down to the market wasn’t bad; it was the walk back up that was the pain.  Climbing up the mountain with the groceries under the high noon sun was tiring.  As I was making my ascent up towards the village, I saw her.  She was stumbling up the trail, over the rocks, like she’d never made this trip before.  She was young, seventeen, maybe, and so simply wholesome that you couldn’t help but try and protect her.} 

^{Her chestnut hair blew out behind her like a fan was positioned directly in front of her.  Her dress swayed against her hips, rhythmically.  Her slender legs took deliberate, but tentative steps over the rocky terrain.} 

^{I called to her, but she did not turn.} 

^{I moved faster, hoping to catch up with her, but she held her own.  I was drawn to her; she was my gravitational pull while we trudged the mountain trail together.  She was my sun, my north star, my guiding light.} 

^{She reached the summit before me, and I knew I was going to lose her.} 

^{When I got to the top, she was gone.  I never saw her again.”}

^***

^{My Prompt was : On the way home, down old Tilley Road...} 

"Perplexed"

Hello Peeps and welcome to the weekend!

I have to admit, I felt pretty bad that I write more to my "Multifaceted" story this week, and with the prompting of my friend Arnold*, I dug deep and pulled out a little more.  For those of you who liked those characters, here they are, a little different, a little skewed, and a little more developed.  I hope you enjoy. 

“Perplexed”
I walked into the kitchen and you would have thought I had stepped into a war zone the way she looked at me with fear blazing in her eyes.  She stood, crouched into a vertical fetal position, armed with a bottle of Windex in one hand and a faded brown flip flop in the other.  If I didn’t know her better, and what she could do to me with that flip flop and Windex, I’d have laughed in her face.

I’m a tough guy, but even I wouldn’t incur the wrath that is she when she feels backed into a corner.  Or, in this case, onto our dining room chair.

The scene is ridiculously hilarious, but more so if you knew just how far she would go to be brave.  She’s so strong, independent, that one might wonder what happened to her to turn her out this way.  She is smart, so smart.  She uses words I’ve never even heard of, much less can pronounce, and she says them with a confidence that lets you know that she means business.  She’s the girl who can fix her own car, her own computer, and her own mistakes.  She doesn’t need anyone’s help or anyone’s pity.  She handles whatever comes at her with finesse and determination.  She can’t be intimidated, provoked, or dissuade from getting what she wants.

She’s no pink-glitter-hugs-and-unicorns kind of girl; she’ll kick your ass if you get in her way.

And yet, here she is, the love of my life, standing on a chair across from our kitchen, about to go to war with cleaning materials and accessories.

“Baby?” I asked, tenderly, uneasy as to how I should proceed with her.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she said, as she started to unfold herself from her attack position.  “I can’t take this.  Where have you been?  Don’t you know it’s your job to ki—aaaah!”
Just as she was about to come down from the chair, I heard a loud screeching sound come from the kitchen, which had her back up on her perch, armed and dangerous.

I recognized the sound but couldn’t place it; it was not where it should be.  I turned to see what it was, and recognized it immediately.

My badass girlfriend was afraid of a cricket.

“Don’t just stand there,” she practically screamed, “get it!”

“Relax…. Seriously…. Relax,” I said, and almost immediately knew this was the wrong thing to say.  Me and my big, unfiltered mouth.

“Relax? Relax? Don’t tell me to relax!”

Uh oh.

“I don’t know who you think you are trying to tell me to relax but I have been here in a god damn panic for nearly an hour trying to figure out what the hell to do with this thing!  I tried to kill it and it jumped up and smacked me clear in the face and I almost had a seizure.  I thought about hiding into the bathroom until it just disappeared but what would I do if it crawled under the door and came in with me!?!  Where would I go then?  Can crickets crawl?  I don’t know, but I can’t take this.  Just help me, okay?”

It’s times like these that I fall for her harder.

“Why don’t you get down from there,” I said, pulling out my wallet and handing her a twenty. “You can leave your weapons with me.  We’ll get your things from the other room, and you can go get us some coffee.  I’ll have everything taken care of by the time that you get back.  Does that sound good?”

What I really want to say to her is "Grow the hell up!  Just because I'm the man doesn't mean I wanna do this any more than you do!  Where are my friggin' rights?"

But, I don't, because let's face it, that'll never work.

Anyway, she's finally coming out of panic-mode.

“Okay, yeah, that sounds great.”

“Good, okay.”

I followed her through the house and walked her to the door, hoping that she wouldn’t have another panic attack in the time it took to gather her crap and get out of the house.  I watched her pull out of the driveway and around the corner before I shut the front door.

I leaned against the door and knew I was in trouble.

I’m petrified of crickets, too.  What the hell am I going to do?

***

I hope you liked this, too.  Arnold wants me to keep going with it, so I'm going to give it more time and effort this week, and maybe I'll have something new for you guys that isn't a rant and rave about stupid people I meet at work.   <3

*Arnold is not actually her name.  But, I find it hilarious, so I go with it. :)

Not Gonna Make It

Indie Ink Challenge Time... Hooray! This week I was challenged by Steffani, who writes inklings (and awesomeness) over here.  My challenge was received by the lovely Alison Newt, who rocked it hard with "The Eldest of Two".  Please Please go read their responses when you're finished here. 

"Not Gonna Make It"

“Now look what you’ve gone and done.  Why did you have to pull in this lane? Obviously everyone is moving over because there is something going on up ahead.  You’re not going to get anywhere being in this lane, idiot, and we are not going to make the show!  I paid good money for these tickets… if we miss it, you’re giving me money.”

She was right. The parkway was a parking lot, and I was trapped in the wrong lane.  Still, there was no need for her to preach to me; it’s not like she’s never made a mistake in her entire perfect life.  No.  She puts her pants on one leg at a time, same as me.  As for giving her money, she’s got another thing coming.  I finance her weekly Spa trips and she gives me nothing.  She can shove these stupid tickets up her tight ass.

“No, Mike, the OTHER lane.  The OTHER lane.  Move over.  No, don’t let him go past you.  You know what your problem is? You’re too nice!  You’re too sensitive; you have no cut-throat instinct!  You need to get tougher.  Are you a man or are you a wuss? Grow a set and merge like you mean it… do I need to get out and stop traffic?”

Am I a man? Of course I’m a man.  Who does she think she is, asking me if I’m a man? How dare she?  If I weren’t a man I would have smacked her across the face right now for her behavior.  Is she a lady? Not that I’ve seen in a long, long time.  She has a mouth like a truck driver.  She burps louder than I do, for chrissake.  Where are her manners?  Where are her lady-like qualities? M.I.A. if you ask me.

“Michael, get your act together!  Christ, and they say women are bad drivers!? They obviously haven’t been in the car with you!  You know I should have driven; we would have already been through the damn Tunnel by now.   I’m never letting you drive to the city ever again…. Michael, are you listening to me?  Am I talking to myself?  What the fuck.”

Don’t answer her.  She’s baiting you.  She wants you to snap so that you’ll be the bad guy for a change.  Don’t answer her.  Don’t answer her. Don’t answer her. Keep it together, kid.

“I’m driving home, that’s all there is to it.  I don’t think I can handle watching you pussyfoot through this disaster anymore tonight.  Oh, see that, the Drive Around It App says that there’s an accident up ahead.  Michael, pull onto the shoulder… the shoulder, Michael!  See everyone else doing it?! Just follow along… you’re good at that…"

No, you know what I see everyone else doing?  I see them working together to get out of a terrible situation.  I see them trying to help the victims of the accident.  You know what I hear all fucking day long, Liz?  I hear the people I love and trust telling me to rid my hands of you, you stupid bitch, but I don’t.  I stay loyal to you because somewhere in that shell of a soul-sucking-dream-killer is the woman that I fell in love with many moons ago.  MANY moons ago.  Ya know what… Fuck this shit.  I’m done.

“Get out of the car, Liz.”

“What do you mean, get out of the car?  Are you insane?”

“You heard me, I said get out of the car.  Now.”

“You’re finally going to grow a spine, after all this time?”  She laughed.  She laughed so hard she snorted.  “That’s a good one.”  

***

Prompt: "Uh, I don't think we're going to make it." 

"To Remain Silent"

"To Remain Silent"

”Your mother was a cunt, and she should have swallowed.”

“That’s what he said?”

“Yes, that is what he said, word for word.”

***

The officers take me into an interrogation room, allowing me nothing but the pleasure of a cold, steel chair.  

The light above us flickers along with a buzzing sound, cluing me in to the fact that there had been no renovations on this building in the last century, if not longer.

I sit with my ankles twisted behind the legs of the chair, making my shoulders hunch forward a bit.  My hair falls in front of my eyes, giving me an easy way out of making eye contact, which I never really enjoyed to begin with.  

I just keep thinking I don’t want to do this.  I don’t want to talk about this.  I don’t want to do this.

The cop stares at me, expecting me to start my side of the story, but my arms are shaking and I’m concentrating too hard on not letting anyone see it but me.   The cop tries to prompt me… bait me, more like it. 

“Why don’t we start at the beginning… where were you tonight?”

My palms start to sweat. 

The light is still buzzing, and I develop an eye twitch. I’m sweating, but I’ve got the chills. I’m holding my arms like they’re an infant, trapped against my stomach.  My eye is twitching.  My ankles are wrapped around the chair.  I am in big trouble.

“In my apartment.” 

I feel like keeping it succinct, like matching the syllables up, even with the same number in the officer’s question is the right thing to do.  It levels the playing field.  It keeps us even. In sync. 

“Was anyone with you?”

“No, I was home alone.”

I see the bad-cop nod to the silent one, and I realize that this is exactly what they’re expecting to hear out of me.  I want to tell them that it isn’t what they think, but they’ve already made up their minds about me.  Figures. 

Bad-cop’s eyes don’t really meet mine, almost like he doesn’t really care about the answer, just hoping that it will come out in a timely manner so that he can write this up, close the case and go home.  I think to myself that I am an idiot for being here, and no one really cares about my side of the story.  I should just go home, pack my shit up, and head out of here as fast as possible, but it’s too late now.  They won’t let me leave.

I aim to uncross my ankles when the silent cop finally looks up from his case folder, sighs, and tells the other cop to leave.  Bad cop stares for just a second, but indulges his partner and heads for the door, to which I breathe a sigh of relief.  I don’t like him, or his eyes.  They’re cold and steely, and made for beating hardened criminals, not people like myself.  Here is where I get to my point, my reason for being here tonight on the cold, steel chair and the buzzing light above.

Silent cop looks at me expectantly.  He knows that I know that it is time to give up the scared little girl routine and get down to brass tacks. 

“I don’t know where to start,” I said, lamely.

“Well, how about this… we’re reporting a domestic assault, correct?” he prodded.

“Yes, sir.  My boyfriend, or ex boyfriend, he came home drunk tonight and went after me.”

***

My prompt was: 

            Use the most offensive phrase you can think of in a short story no less than 500 words, without censoring it or yourself. I was challenged by Octoberesque.  I challenged Kat at Kat's Page with the challenge of "Dear Diary".  You can see how she rocked it by clicking on the little link!  

Go to Indieink.org to check out all the rest of the challenges!

Snip Snip

Peeps!  For your reading pleasure....

***

She came in and sat down in front of me.  

There were no pleasantries.  There were no laughs, hugs, or extra smiles if they weren’t absolutely necessary.  It wasn’t so much an awkward silence, as it was more that we both knew what our purpose was and we kept to it.  That’s fine with me.  I don’t really want to be a therapist.  I am not here to hold your hand or be your mother, despite what other people in my shoes would tell you. 

This girl, this child almost, was in misery.  I stood back, watching her face in the mirror as I worked methodically, and wondered what happened to her that this was the ultimate result.  Tears streamed down her face.  Her eyes, bloodshot and swollen, looked as if they’d been leaking for hours with no break.  Her nose, as well, was cherry red as she repeatedly wiped it over and over, struggling to maintain a modicum of composure.

Realizing that she wasn’t going to want to talk to me, I started humming to myself.  It was just a tune, I couldn’t put my finger on, but as soon as I finished the first string of notes, she glared at me through the mirror.  Her gaze sent chills down my spine, and froze me to the bone, so much so that I actually stopped what I was doing, mid-action.  I immediately lowered my tone and set back to work, hoping to get rid of her as fast as possible, now that I was feeling extremely uncomfortable. 

As I finished up, I was still humming, and it escalated into a crescendo.  This crying woman in front of me looked about to kill me.  I cleared my throat, obviously flustered, and said the only thing I could think to say….

“…would you like to schedule your follow-up appointment for a color treatment?”

The glare on her face told me that she wouldn’t be coming back to this salon ever again.  That’s when I realized what I'd been humming... 

I guess that’s why they call it the blues.

***

I love Indieink!  I am back in the challenge, baby!  Yay!  

This week I was challenged by the most awesome Michael over at Incidents and Accidents with the prompt "I guess that's why they call it the blues".  In turn, I challenged Stefan, my first international follower (!!!!) with "somewhere over the rainbow".  You can see his response H.E.R.E.

Radio Edit

Indie Ink time.  This week's installment is a bit more mellow and somber, compared to my usual wit and sarcasm.  I hope you like it. 

When first challenged with this prompt, I was baffled.  At a BBQ with my friends the other night, I went so far as to say that I had no idea what to write about because I don’t like boys and I don’t like summer.  I gave it some thought, though, and mulled it over during down time at work, and this is what I came up with.

I can see you

I can see you, in my head, when I close my eyes.  I don’t see the real you anymore, though; I see the still-life, beautiful version of you, without any flaws or imperfections, or any sign that you once were sad and human.  I see you smiling a big, goofy grin that didn’t make many appearances in life, but they punctuate my memories of you.  You’re immortal now, in my eyes.

your brown skin shining in the sun

…always irritated me.  You turned so dark during the summer that people confused you with a latina woman. You AND Jacquie.  I always tried (and failed) to maintain a tan like yours, which is probably why I identified more with my Irish side.  I was jealous.  You could sit outside for twenty minutes and be sun kissed, where as I could sit outside for twenty minutes and need ice packs for my blistered legs.  Especially for your wedding to Roger, when I was wearing my strapless bride’s maid dress with racer back sun burn lines that you tried to “blend” with blush.

You’ve got your hair pulled back

… which was rare.  The only times I ever remember you pulling your hair back was when you used to use a scrunchy from the 80’s. 

Dad gave me the good hair, while you and Jacquie had the mousy brown hair that didn’t really do anything.  You tried everything, from cutting it short, growing it long,  bleaching it blonde, going red, and getting a horrible perm.  Your hair was always a hot mess.  I know you would admit this if you were here. 

You always liked my hair, even when it was a “rat’s nest”.  You’d always braid it if I wanted pigtails, and you’d straighten it for me when I’d get too frustrated to deal with it. 

and your sunglasses on

Sunglasses were never your thing, but when you did wear them, they had to be blue blockers.  God forbid you didn’t have them.  Any other type was just junk.  Maybe that’s why I can only settle for Aviators?  I never realized that it might have been from you. 

You would much rather rock the beret, the dickie under your shirts, and a pair of shorts over your leggings, because you needed pockets for your cigarettes and phone, no matter how many times I begged you to stop wearing them.  You were always you, even when faced with adversity.  You always remained true to yourself, a person who, as said by your husband, always marched to the beat of her own drummer.  I hope that I can be as strong as you were. 

I can tell you my love for you will still be strong

We had more than enough fights, arguments, and disagreements.  I regret that.  I know you would have forgiven me long before I would you.  I didn’t say I love you enough, and not because I didn’t, but because I felt to withhold it was punishment.  I love you.  You know how I know for sure?  Because even after all the bullshit, the nightmares that were both of our lives, I still ache to be able to call you and know that you’ll pick up on the other end… that I won’t be listening to “Don’t Stop Believin’” for eternity, and being mocked for doubting whether or not you’re still here.  I love you, and my love for you has grown stronger for every single day.

after the boys of summer have gone.

You would have enjoyed this, mom.  You loved abusing song lyrics into daily conversation.  I hope I’ve made you proud.  I hope, wherever you are, that you’re singing loudly, hopefully on key, and that they’ve got your microphone plugged in and fully charged. 

I love you.

***

The prompt was given by Transplantedx3 ("the boys of summer..."), while I challenged Head Ant, who rocked it here.

Also, I feel that since I remembered to add the prompt this week, I should get a gold star... just sayin'. 

The Sky is Falling

Hey Peeps!  As you're all dying to know, its Indie Ink time again!  Hooray!  This week I was challenged by Miranda at My Eclectic Bookshelf, whose prompt will be at the end.  This prompt left me a jumbled mess, because first I knew what I was going to write about, and then, I didn't.  Then, I struggled some more and had a little help from Maid Marian and finally found myself back on track.  I hope you enjoy.  I challenged Trish, who postponed her breakdown to give us something fantastic. You can check her out here.

The Sky is Falling

We awoke together, a single mass of tangled, knotted limbs, lying in a puddle of rain. The smell of mildewing fabric permeated the air and my lungs as my body forced itself to breathe deeply.  We looked at each other, each trying to suppress a gasp, to disguise our surprise of what the other had become in the night. 

We were not written into a fairy tale; far from it, but really, who is?  She was covered in dirt, a few leaves twisted into her hair, and a spider bite marked her shoulder between two freckles.  I’m sure I looked no better; I could feel the layers of grime and film covering me like a second skin.  We were at that point, afterwards, where you feel dirty, and not in a good way.  You don’t want anyone to see you; you’re filthy, sticky, and sweaty, and you just want to cover yourself up or find the nearest shower.   

I can only vaguely recall the sound of the tent ripping… was it her foot, or mine, that tore the seam from the corner?  Was it before or after that second time?  That one was pretty wild. The tent was quite old, and her nails, long and sharp, were most likely responsible for the puncture marks in the sleeping bag, which collectively might explain the puddle. 

Considering everything, she was the most beautiful thing I had seen in days.  Also, quite possibly the funniest.  This girl, this woman, prided herself on being impeccably dressed, always to the nines, and she laid next to me as nothing short of a disaster. 

 All of a sudden, my constitution was shattered and I let everything go, shaking away the disaster that had been our lives the previous night.  As if a subconscious action, like breathing, I let out the most gut-busting, obnoxious laugh I’d ever heard myself make during my entire life.  “You look like Jane the Jungle Woman!’ I said, finally, as I inhaled a deep breath while trying to regain my composure. 

She glared at me, raised her eyebrow, and turned her eyes to bore straight into mine the way only a woman can while silently telling me that this was the inappropriate time.   In all honesty, she was probably right, but I don’t take social cues very well and I would rather laugh about situations outside of my control.  Apparently now wasn't the time to do anything but stay silent, wring out our lake-tent, pack up the car, and drive back to suburbia.
***
My prompt was: "You wake up lying in a puddle of rain... what are the events that lead up to this...".