Miscellaneous Writings and Musings


A genie and her rock band

(Novel and Short Stories)

Steal Tomorrow

Steal Tomorrow
Murder, Mystery, First Love, and the End of the World

(Novel and Short Stories)

My Books and Stories

My Books and Stories
Where to Buy, Read, Download

55 - Room Service

The card on the tray said "enjoy" but how could she? Each bite must be weighed, each calorie counted. She had been schooled in the art of self-denial and rich desserts were for guilt and shame, not pleasure.

Then she took a bite...

To hell with guilt. And shame? It could take a flying leap.

One Basket

I put my eggs
in a basket,
though I can't trust
it will hold.

Other tests and trials
have proved it unreliable;
each failure an assault,
a mugging,
a sneak attack,
or a lie
whispered in the dark.

But we make our choices
with high ideals,
choose our course
and try to stick to form,
bearing blown chances
and lost opportunities
with nary a peep.

So though I'm uncertain
what the day will bring,
still I'll take these eggs
and put them
in my basket,
not because
I know no better
but because this
is all I have.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Opossums and Voodoo

At first glance it seemed like a nice place - a quiet pavilion by the water, a place to rest on a hot summer day. It was ideal until she noticed the dead chicken and the furtive scurrying of gray furry creatures.

She wondered what it meant, but then noticed the sign, which explained everything.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No opossums or voodoo were noted by the author at this location. 

Got a story you can tell in 55 words? Tell Mr. Knowitall!


You're a nice distraction
from my proximal problem,
proximate cause,
proxy for so many things
that I refuse to say.

I could spend
all my days
mired in the muck of imagining,
making up fairy tales,
(stories of you)
fables and tragedy,
(mysteries, too)
spinning story lines,
each a fine diversion
(nice excursion)
phony version
of the tale I dare not tell.

So let's walk away from it all,
tiptoe quietly, please 
lest these tales become truth
and shred my heart.

Tonight there is a sinkhole
spreading under my feet,
and something feral and insatiable
lurking under the bed.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Cruel to Be Kind

They say I must
be cruel
to be kind,
but I’m not sure.

If I cast you out,
who here is the monster?
Am I playing to
your sucker’s game,
or engaging
in some ghastly sport
of my own?

I have no answer,
though I quiet my mind
and seek interstitial space
in which to rest,
gain perspective,
gather my thoughts,
garner just a little
(and hope)
that when they lay my heart
upon the scale,
if it can’t be feather-light
it will at least be feather-bright.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.


I've listed my faults,
gathered my failings
into one nice tidy box,
but they are just words:
plucked from air
(and a dictionary)
with gutsy optimism
that they are something
to grasp on to.

But labels are funny things,
defining choices,
narrowing the flow,
creating an invisible prison
devoid of chance,
bereft of choice;
the type of place fit only
for automatons
and guilt.

I would walk away from it all,
step outside the ring of lies,
the polluted stream
of fevered dreams
and cravings for certainty
in an unsure world.
There is nothing here
but quicksand
and illusion.

The body succumbs to temptation,
but the mind can choose
to be free.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.


It’s just a rogue thought,
passing fancy,
a little dream,
a fantasy,
accelerated by a story line
that just won’t quit.

Shut up.

Silence the chattering mind.
Don’t bite the hook,
lest you be dragged to shore,
(dark island of your own derangement)
where you’ll be served up
by the natives
as a snack.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Wait Too Long...

I've defied 
good common sense
which said:
cut my losses,
cut and run,
cut away this malignancy
that keeps me
out of balance,
out of luck,
out of love,
a witness to 
your lost potential;
dreaming of a former

I've tiptoed around the issue,
prayed for symmetry,
searched for synergy,
begged for sympathy,
but no others see my plight
or hear my plea,
and there are no greener pastures,
bucolic landscapes
for effecting
an alternate ending
to this sordid tale.

No, I have missed my chances,
and all that I am left with
is a tenuous balance 
on the edge,
and a free fall into an open pit,
whichever way I fall.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.