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


It’s a slippery sinuous thing
sneaking into wormholes,
creeping into consciousness,
lurking in the background of dreams,

Like a radio.
Always playing.
One room over.

Where do the rampant questions end
and tedious rounds of remembrance
turn to forgetting?

The only menace lies in the meaning we ascribe.

Close your eyes and take a breath
as the long gray road ahead unwinds.
The heart unravels but all the world remains.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


It’s all temporary, you know.
Do not indulge.
Don’t care too much.
Every hanging on
must soon let go.

Hold yourself aloof
the entanglements that would bind you,
drag you under,
leave you drowning.


I started whole
but they keep taking pieces:
a pinch of flesh,
(a pound of mind)
What will be left at the end?

Graviora manet.
So in the meantime, let us dance.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


I have rehearsed the disaster
a thousand times
so I will not have to think
and cannot fail.

Ask the right questions.
Say the right things.
Shoulder a puzzling burden
and pretend to understand,
while deeper meaning eludes me.


Outward calm
but nerves stretched tight.
Bend, don’t break.
Accept your fate.
Chin up and carry on.

After years of why
and holding my breath,
now I see the outlines
of what’s to come.

I’ve lived my life in fog.

I swallow the lump in my throat
and prepare for Decuma's storm.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


I am in a safe place,
my safe zone,
a place where good sense happens,
unblemished by the foolishness
around me.

Consumed by practicalities,
I erect my earthly castle
(no lopsided structure)
of fitted joints,
and steel and stone,
and logic.

I know I build my shelter
on gently shifting sand,
but the stakes go deep
into the ground.

So do not think me cold
when I don't join you
at quicksand's edge.
That is where the danger lies.

I'm safer here on higher ground
where there is always much to plan
and always much to do.

Heaven has no use for tears
and I have not the time.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


I think the words
but they don’t go together,
and if the words don’t fit
how can they be true?
A senseless babble,
a buzzing in the brain
as I write with trembling hands.

Stay focused.

There are no solutions here,
only mismatched pieces
of the puzzle of you.
Too many things are missing:
mistakes were made
and the pieces I’ve been offered
don’t look the same.

I’m told the final piece
must go here now,
but my questions could fill oceans.
Instead I stuff them in teacups,
smile politely
and say it’s all okay.

The answers, when they come,
will engender further questions
(more missing pieces than I can count)
and ahead of me is a long road
with many years to wonder.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.


Small pebbles
leave no epic wake
but their ripples crash like tidal waves
on the shores of those most near,
momentous and monstrous
but small enough to hide in a teacup
(with room to spare).

What do we do
with the pouts and sighs,
the manipulative tears,
when the halo of sudden canonization
distracts from all faults
and turns petty accomplishments
into greatness?

We seek grand explanations
hidden in darkness
to soothe our tortured souls.
But the truth, when it comes
is prosaic
a needless snuffing of a candle
for the most ridiculous of reasons.

And so a favored child
turns to blind end, footnote
a name on a chart
in someone’s tallying of distant kin.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.


It would be a bitter pill
(bigger pill)
to have to swallow
if it all came down the same way
as before.

But though I’ve made some stumbles
(foolish fumbles)
sighs and grumbles,
still I’ve stayed the course,
put in the effort
done my time,
and tried not to be laid too low
by worry.

Uncertain future is my lot
and so I try again,
coached with buoyant words
(glorious to my ears)
that make me smile
and dream awhile
but not believe.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


We husband our powers
and imagine we shape our lives like clay.
In truth we make only monsters
cobbled from this
stolen from that
nothing ever truly our own.

Every idea 
from its humblest beginnings
to its bitterest end
passed through the filter of the mob,
whose tongues will wag
and words will burn
if our creature isn’t as lurching and hideous
as their own.

Who am I to them
(or me to you)
that freedom should be so proscribed?

Oh I would sleep, 
perchance to dream
and finally see the wild places
I daren’t venture awake.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

New Fiction Site

I have started serializing my WIP, Cold Haven. At this time, it is incomplete and current material is enough to see us into August. I've struggled with writer's block for over a year on this one, but a recent post by Worderella has hopefully broken me out of it. She suggests asking "What can go wrong?" rather than "What happens next?"

What can go wrong in Cold Haven? Plenty. I hope to see you over there!


I calculate your worth
while you analyze my smile.

Fearful of the future,
skeptical of the moment,
envious of all who came before,
but still we carry on.

Love is a messy business.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Just Another Job

Place of memories and laughter.
Now the wind’s home.
Someone’s pride,
a dream come true,
soon just another job:
A bulldozer driver’s paycheck.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.


I would rid myself of you:
empty head
empty heart
empty veins
Bloodless, cold as granite,
and as fearless.

But flesh is fragile,
mind is weak.
Resolutions made
at noontime
will come to naught
before the sun goes down.

No names for what I feel.
No words can give it weight.
But still I try to chart this out
make a table:
write a list
draw a map to guide me
through the howling darkness
to a place
where no vestigial ghosts
of memory
rob my soul.

Oh do not think of me
nor speak my name,
lest I come come full circle
and love you once again.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.


Now we all evolve,
transform into
the Other.

Looking high,
seeking low,
water finds its level.


Oh, don’t stand there
feigning innocence
you’ve never known.
Sober as a judge.
Judge me not.
Judge my words
(not deeds)
for though my actions fail me,
and reach exceeds my grasp
and efforts sometimes come to naught,
my words reveal
what’s true.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


I know it to be folly,
but I won't stop.

When memories
don’t match mirrors,
science steps in
(as if on cue).

No need to act all saintly.
You’re wrestled with this demon,
chose a different track.
Feigned happiness.
Put on airs.
Said you’d never do as me,
but it’s an act,
a jealous thing,
mired in empty fears
and poverty.

Bones grow brittle,
faces crack,
and all that’s left
are tightly held beliefs
we once thought truth,
now shattered,
like pebbles on a riverbank
with time's river rushing by.

There are no angels here,
and vanity cannot save us.
But it will make the descent
a little prettier.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Sunday Whirl.


A glass half full,
but we want more.
Who says when it’s too much?
Fleece your neighbor.
Fill your plate.
Crowd your life to bursting.

There’s always room for another.

What values have we instilled
with our abundance?
All wound up with expectations,
drunk and stumbling
through the funhouse.
Tumble down
without a sound.
(No one wants to listen, anyway.)

It’s all a farce, you know.
So put on your glad rags
and clown shoes,
emit your happy cries
and cheer along with the others.
Refuse to see.

With our cravings we seal our fate.
We need to begin again.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Sunday Whirl.


I would extend a hand,
but you would pull me under.
Drown with you.
Die with you.
Take me to deep places
and make me measure hours
by the ticking of a doomsday clock:
End of time.
Out of rhyme.
Oh we are in a state, my friend.

Race to the bottom.
Race against time.
Patrons, a host of demons
who spread a bitter feast
where we dine upon delusion
and nibble tender mercies
salted with madness.

Fight your way out.
Fly away home,
but mud still clings to your wings,
pulling you back. 
We can't all get out alive.

Now I spend my days
under a cloud of I know why.
But still I understand,
and I say with all humility:
I have not sinned.

There can be no rescue
for those who wish to drown.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.


It’s a chilly wind that blows,
but I still smile.

In a world of cold depravity,
and strange delusions,
I see the madness for what it is.

Though powerful forces
would accuse
and drag into the muck,
I will not follow suit.
Yesterday’s wrong answer
won’t justify today.

And so I read their words,
hear their voices,
shake my head at folly,
and still smile.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


You’re back again,
inside my head,
channeled in somehow.

Am I condemned to remember you always?

I thought this tug of war had ended,
strange ennui of disgust and love
where every mood has meaning
and senses burn hot
like withered grass.

My eyes see you in empty rooms.
I smell and taste a passion long departed.

Should I capitulate to the past,
dream of things that cannot be?
Better, perhaps, to list your faults,
parse and tally them,
generate a query
that will give me simple answers
and render you thus harmless.
But can complexity
be reduced
to a single number?
Yes or no.

Too easy.

So instead I will go about my days
with folded hands
and phony smiles,
while you lurk in the inky shadows of my mind.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.