Apologies to anyone who’s seeing this posted a 3rd time, what can I say?

I’m actually proud of it, and the companion/prequel piece that was also inspired by the conversation by a good friend and Very talented writer.

RhetoricAskew herself Mandy Melanson.

It made me smile how close both stories were to each other, greatly tortured and dark minds thinking alike and all that.

Here’s mine:

Conversation Inspired Flash.


Beeping reverberated in the room, echoing off the stark white walls. The hiss of the machines that were circulating Vincent’s breath and blood created a wave like pattern, sounding like surf crashing on the beach. The Hospital room couldn’t be further from sand and sunshine.
The doctor eyed Rose, still sceptical.
“You’re sure you want to try this? I’ve seen this kind of mumbo jumbo before, I’ll admit it has some power, but the risk to yourself? Is it worth it”
Honeyed hazel eyes blinked slowly,
“There’s no choice, we need him up and walking.”
“Have it your way, I’ll do what I can should the worst happen. Don’t day I didn’t warn you.”
“You’ve done your due diligence Doctor, Now let me work. ”
Turning sharply from the Doctor, she glided to the top of the stretcher, Placed her hands on his head and entered his mind.


The room was cramped, looking more like the inside of a crate. Weapons and armour stuffed on shelves and strewn around the floor.
Rose knew it was a warning, the lobby of a mind always gave clues as to what was inside. This was not a good sign, trusting her judgement she looked for something in her size and prepared to go in further.
“Leave” pleaded a loud disembodied voice, “I can’t hold them off, I have to keep them here!”
“Vincent!” she shouted.
“He can’t hear you…” glowered a voice from the corner “… You should listen to him.”
It had resembled a heap of weeds and rags, yet it moved, and apparently spoke.
“I’m Eric before you ask, if you care. I’m supposed to stop people going in, but I’ve been stopping them coming out.”
“Them, them who?”
“The ones that escaped the pit”
“What Pit? You’re not making any sense.”
If you go In you’ll see, but I’d advise you didn’t”
She viewed the pitiful heap and snorted. “How are you supposed to stop anyone going in, You look Half dead.”
It unfolded from a knee high midden to a full nine feet above her head, Clawed fingers dripping what could only be venom.
It was horrifying and pitiful.
“There’s hardly any energy left to sustain me, He’s using it all to fight … them.”
Rose pondered a second, this thing, this abomination of thought was the Gatekeeper; The welcome wagon.
What the hell had she gotten herself into.
Eric motioned and opened the heavy wooden door.
“C’mon if you’re coming, I might as well come with you… He doesn’t have long.”
They descended the dank stone stairs for what seemed like hours. At the bottom it opened into a huge cavern. They were standing on a clifftop, overlooking a vast plain.
Each shape was different, each horrific in it’s own way.
There were tens of thousands of them, all circling a distant center where a tiny figure was engaged in mortal combat with the whole damn horde.
“Vincent! What the hell have you done?” she gasped
Eric loomed over her, “It wasn’t his fault, he kept them all in the pit, one of us turned and released them”
Rose shot her gaze up at him “Which one Eric? Its Important.”
The beast sighed ” You look like you already know the answer… It was Hope.”
Her eyes became narrow “And these things?” she queried sharply.
“They’re every dark impulse and thought he’s ever had.”
She gasped, and looked at the distant figure raging a war with his own mind. So many, Maybe she didn’t know him at all. What drove a man to fight when hope had betrayed him.

“Take me to the pit.”


The nurse flew into the room as the alarm sounded,
“Doctor, we’ve got Ventricular fibrillation…”
The Doctor pulled his glasses down and stared at her over the top of the golden frames.
“I’m not an idiot! Get the crash cart and fifty mils of adrenaline, two syringes… we might lose them both.”


Yeah, I also do poetry…

To want, crave,
That which cannot be had,
Is the sweetest torment,
To know, see, feel,
Another anguish,
Another thorn,
To have thoughts,
Not my own,
Alien yet familiar,
To find the lone flower in the dark garden,
And stand as the sun rises,
Watching the bloom,
As the rays kiss the petals,
Unable to turn,
Look away,
Held by that which is finally free.
I see.
I know.
I feel…


I find myself at a loose end.
Well, not entirely, I’ve a project on the go that’s around 200 layers thick and it’s driving me nuts because I want it to be perfect… *sigh*
The epic short I was working on all week is finally done and posted, a non stop action piece expanding on some of the minor characters in one of my unfinished novels. It was fun to see my main characters take a back seat and go through the aftermath of one battle…
I’m thinking of shortening the main piece and maybe doing a series of shorter books, toning the language and aiming it at the YA market.
Hell, I’m thinking of doing it with P.O.D, and that needs a new name.
I guess the question is which way to jump.
Do I want to press on with the idea of having an actual ‘thud’ on the coffee table when my book hits it, or a series of ‘slaps’ as thinner volumes hit it.
I know Stephen King did it with ‘The Green Mile’, but that’s Stephen King and let’s face it, the dude could have an acid trip and finger paint in soy sauce and it’d hit the bestseller list.
A series of those 200 page paperbacks might be nice, and the energy to get through one of them is attractive. Write like a maniac and… Done.
I think it might be a better fit with my writing and mental style. Pedal to the metal, keep going, and don’t stop until it’s done.
Someone said to me once ” The top of a mountain always looks further away from halfway up than it did from the bottom” and to take that a step further, even Everest has a few base camps, you don’t do the whole thing at once.
If I go that route, and with a little editing and chopping, P.O.D would be ready in a week. Then published… Self published… Slush piles?
But is that the route I should take?
It’s attractive because of the whole sense of accomplishment, it’d be a done thing.
And being mercenary, yes an actual trickle of income.
I was recently told that I’m confusing and I had to chuckle. I am and I’m not.
I know what I want and somehow go about everything in the most confusing and difficult way possible…
But in this instance, with the possibility of actually getting print/e-ink out there in the wilderness…
Do I turn a 6 novel series into an 18 book epic short series?
If I did book 1 is finished and book 2 is almost complete…
Decisions, decisions.


I accidentally began the last chapter of my Work in Progress during the workshop one of my writing groups had on Monday…

” Angel felt the ground shake beneath her feet, Blister 3 was done for. Chip relayed the data overlaying her sight, there was no way the station would stand an attack of that magnitude. Turning quickly, she ran for the nearest transport square, fury burning in her veins. They would pay dearly for this, they might not save their home… but there would be blood… and wrath.”

And I’m faced with destroying the station.

Now I should explain that I’ve lovingly crafted this station over the course of the last couple of years, I know every system, every subsystem, I know that Krad Vertenen found the asteroid and began the process of turning it into a home for 3 million humans, I know that it spins at .28 rpm to produce .98 earth G…
I’d want to live there…

During the course of the character development workshop, and coupled with the new life that’s been breathed into her, my main character needs this to ignite the riot of fury to continue to evolve.

Blister 3 must perish.
It’s the only way humanity is going to get pissed off enough to survive.

Chocolate Freaking Teapot!

I’m one of those annoying people who believes in the impossible.
Yes it’s true.
I’m also one of those annoying people who chases the impossible.

Yet when improbable things happen I’m always surprised.
Last night I got the completely unexpected opportunity to let go of something that ate at me even though I thought I was over it.
In the process I learned something.
That festering bubble of hatred that I’d kept so long, almost protected in my mind in the book of grudges is gone.
And with it one of the most sacrosanct reasons for my later rebellion and the 7 year party that was my late teens/early 20’s.
One of my prized monsters is gone and I’m not sure how to take it.
I’m questioning everything.
Life has provided opportunities, two of which are worth chasing and one which I’m not sure how to detangle myself from without becoming one of those monsters. Yes I’ve gone and been my usual self and of course it’s  a combination of things that are out of context.
And it all stems back to not becoming that particular monster.
Today I do feel about as useful as a chocolate freaking teapot.

Taking it Back!

Songs belong to people, in my mind anyway, they’re tied to memory in a way that cements them in my life, because if I’ve learned anything it’s that people in my life are transient.
Friends, lovers, family… all come and go.
If you’ve been in my life, you’ve probably got a song… You’ll never be told what it is, but there’s one for you… and if you haven’t been in my life you’ll get one when you come in.
Music ties me to people, my life has a soundtrack that has it’s roots embedded in screaming guitars and killer drumbeats.
So when I reclaimed a song… for myself I might add, I was surprised that it was twined with another’s thread.
Fate you might say.
The universe being as unsubtle as it can.
… Really?
I awoke to confirmation of the same… it just fits.
I’m damned and I know it.
And the universe generally knows what it’s doing… That being said… What the fuck?
Difficulty mode Vertical!

More fuel for the fire! The fire that keeps me writing, the inspiration for totrtured characters, angst ridden poetry, tales of Unrequited love and all that Jazz.
The Universe both Loves and Hates me…
And holy fuck does it Provide… In abundance.

I warned y’all this was a look inside my mind.
And it will only make any sense to a select few…
People that know me better than they should…
Better than I know me…

So Here’s to music.
And poetry.
And feelings.
And all that jazz that makes the world rock!

Monday Morning

The single most misunderstood day of the week. I was looking all over Facebook this morning and it struck me how disenchanted people are with one day of the week.
Are they really that terrible?
Mondays I view like mini new years day, a day to actually get your shit together and make something of your life.
Work this week is going to be scarce, so I’m faced with either waiting for things to pick up, or finding an opportunity and kicking in the door.
Steel toe boots… Check!
Speaking of the time vampire that is Facebook, I found a lot there. It used to be just this thing where I existed to kill time, recently it’s become much more than that. I found a family of writers, a support group that is actually beneficial, a muse, and the inspiration to actually do what I should have been doing for the last 15 years.
I’m a writer.
I’ve had I don’t know how many jobs and false starts of careers, but writing has always been there, and what makes me frustrated is the lack of support I’ve had for it. I’m good at it, and that’s not just the ego talking, it’s the opinions of actual people who have been published or not and are fantastic writers themselves.
It’s amazing what a little support will do.
People who matter in my life have seen the changes in me.

So make your Monday resolutions, it’ll change your life.
I promise.