One Doesn't Stop to Talk with Nightmares - Day 4 of the 2016 PAD Challenge

Off-prompt, but from a line in a Guy Gavriel Kay story, provided by one of our writing group partners, Lori Krell. I think this one is about becoming our worst nightmares. 

Mirror of the Soul by ispheria.

One Doesn't Stop to Talk to Nightmares

Yes, I heard her warning

as I left the bar that night.

I heard her

but I refused to heed

the raving rantings

of a whore

Yes, she warned me of the dangers

of straying from the path

of staying too long

of listening

to the whispers.

I heard her

but I thought her

mad

I thought

her

mad.

She said, One doesn't stop

to talk to nightmares.

I said, What do you know

of dreams?

Her cracked face

sagged:

fractures panes

in ruined casement.

Yes, I wondered what she lost

from lingering too long

from sipping too deeply

from keeping cozy company

with the demons

of her dreams

I wondered, but dismissed her

A mad woman

A transient

A fool

No, I did not see her

for what she is

for what she was:

Not a broken window

but a mirror.

A reflection

of me.

Fiction Friday: Mourning

Strange Weather - J. Garnett (firstplusprojects.net)

For Fiction Friday this week, I borrowed a prompt from 3 AM Epiphany, and then promptly ignored it.

The prompt, titled The City, asks the writer to write two short scenes in a cityscape of the author's choice - one at night, one in the daytime.

What came out is a fragment of an aftermath, when something catastrophic has occurred, and the citizens of the city are digging out to assess the damage.

This is called Mourning.
Flash Fiction
Word Count: 354

            In the city, there fell a soft snow of petals, and each one helicoptered down into the sleeping street. There fell a scent, also, of ash and spiderwebs, of mothwings and death.

            Those who survived the night clawed forth from the gutters to gaze out in wonder at the husk of their city. Breeze battered the lanterns on their strings, long tatters of them strewn from rooftops, across lorries, into windows, all shattered. The night that shook and ravaged had raged and passed. It cast up land, shaking blooms from the trees, raking stars from the sky, shifting plates of rock upways and sideways and down.

            Gray people with lamplight eyes, taking hold of hands, drifted silently into crosswalks. Wordless, they stared at the fallen fragments. Fire had come. Flood had answered. Waste remained.

            And life. Life clung in the sidewalk cracks, grassblades and dandelions, caked black, but alive. Pools collected in the low spaces, trapping fish and crabs in the cracks. They darted and flipped, a coruscation of scales and claws. In the high crumbling towers, redbirds dared to pierce the quiet with their songs.

            So the people crept, wary at first, and then frantic, as the pebbles scrabbled, as the first murmurs rose up. People clambered to release those entombed.

            Then noise bloomed out, cries of joy and shouts of despair. Then shifting stone. Hands clasped hands. Arms lifted and cradled. Heads tilted back, eyes to ashen sky, and tears fell.

            More fires and more cairns, these set with more care than those of nature's random violence.

            Daylight waned. Shadows deepened. A new landscape yawned into night. Those who remained gathered tight, hipbone to hipbone, shoulder to shoulder. Light subsided into smoke-skeined skies, and stars stared down, sharp and keen and unreachable.

            Quiet descended, punctured by coughs and cries. The old ones waited, wary and watchful, but the bones of the earth lay still.

            In the morning, there fell a soft rain, and each drop needled into the sleeping street. There fell a sorrow, also, of loss and exhaustion, of dust and death.

            And those who survived the night strove forward, hoping, somehow, to rebuild. 

Fiction Friday: Shower Song

For Fiction Friday this week, I am sharing an excerpt from the YA Science Fiction novel Parker Dumas and I are co-writing, The Boy Who Painted Stars.

In the novel, the main character, Vinnie, lives on the Halo, a ring-shaped space station that orbits the earth. Specifically, Vinnie and his Gran work in the Scaff, which is the service quarters supporting the Halo. Everything in the Halo and the Scaff is carefully monitored and rationed, especially water.

In this excerpt, Vinnie, a trans-male, has his Shower Song. Twice a week, he gets to bathe, and his shower is limited to the length of his favorite song. After his shower, he tries on his new binder and finds out it's a little more restrictive than he first bargained for.

Here is the link for Vinnie's Shower Song: When You Wish Upon A Star

"Shower Song"
from The Boy Who Painted Stars
by Celeste Hollister
Word Count: 1785

Part of the never-enough of the Scaff was the never-enough of water. Like everything else in the Halo, it had to be recycled over and over again. Once a month, the Halo toted fresh water from planetside in gigantic plastic drums. But most of the water they got from the filtration system was carefully monitored so that every drop could be reclaimed.

.

Nothing in the Scaff was more regulated than water. Restaurants like Stiletto's received an allotment based on their average business per month. Scaff folk used their day-to-day rations to wash their personals, like dishes and clothes. Bathing, though, was set up on a schedule of weekly rotation.

Each person in the Scaff got two shower songs per week. Any water they didn't use got immediately reclaimed by the Halo, so if you missed your song, you'd be stink out of luck until your next rotation.

Like most people, Vinnie loved his shower song. You climbed into the shiny, clean shower tube, tapped up the pre-programmed list of songs, got your sponge all lathered up, and hit play. The lights dimmed to a soft, buttery glow. Then the water hissed on, heated to your exact preference, and you'd scrub scrub scrub while the music filled the scented air.

Vinnie had perfected his shower ritual. His favorite song was a Disney classic, When You Wish Upon A Star. The song rang in at a full three and a half minutes of lathery bliss.

Vinnie spent the first twenty second count of the song washing his pits and his bits. He spent another eight seconds scrubbing between his toes. That brought him to the lyrics portion of the song. He worked shampoo into his kinky curls, scrubbing deep to reach his scalp. He rinsed while the second verse trilled in a sonorous tenor: “Fate is kind. She brings to those love the sweet fulfillment of their secret longing.”

Then came a coconut conditioner – one of the cherished rarities he'd saved for. This he let soak in his hair for twenty-four seconds before letting the water course through it. He always hummed along with the last refrain, eyes closed and reverent: “Like a bolt out of the blue, fate steps in and pulls you through. When you wish upon a star our dreams come true.”

Vinnie twirled under the shower spray, letting the swells of violins and the chorus of voices sing through his skin and his bones.

Signaling the song's end, a soft chime sounded, followed by Mickey Mouse's tinny laugh. “Uh hello, there,” the mouse said. “Always remember: When you wish upon a star, your dreams really do come true!”

Tears pricked behind Vinnie's eyes as the water abruptly shut off. He squinched them closed and squeezed his hands into fists.

As always, he whispered his most sacred wishes. There were only two, and he never spoke them out loud. Except in his dreams.

His dream from last night spun up in him, his hands linked with Myra's, the paint on his lips, the taste of metal and sugar. 

He pulled the towel from its rung and wiped his mouth. Fans in the shower's ceiling and floor whirred to life, chasing stray drops from his skin for reclamation.

An airy voice sounded over the speakers: “You have one minute and eighteen seconds saved from previous songs. Please choose from the following menu items.”

This was a HaloCorp trick. If you chose to end your shower early, you could save your water ration until you had enough time for a third shower song. Or, you could combine them for a spa package which included an extra long song, like Ina Godda Da Vita, and special things like aromatherapy and a colored light show.

Or, you could donate them back to the Scaff for people in need. The shower's OS helpfully provided a list of organizations to which your could donate your extra water: Halo General Hospital, The Angel's League Home for Children, elderly care facilities, that sort of thing.

Vinnie didn't trust it. He believed HaloCorp kept all the donated water in reserve. And yes, Myra had guessed it, he was stealing water, but it was for a good cause of his own choosing.

“Gen, run subprogram eighty-eight, please,” Vinnie said.

Gen fluttered into action, connecting to the shower's computer as the screen illuminated the final menu option.

“You have selected to donate – one minute and eighteen seconds – to Scaff ID number one-zero-five-two. Please say yes to confirm this donation.”

“Yes,” Vinnie answered.

“Donation confirmed,” the shower computer intoned. “Have a blessed day.”

Vinnie wrapped his body in the towel and stepped from the dry shower tube-icle. Gen returned to the Thread display on his wrist. “You have donated a total of four minutes and twenty-one seconds to Ava Beatrice Pero Lazarotti.”

He smirked at his reflection in the mirror. “Gran can have a nice, long scrub today. She's earned it.”

“Reminder,” Gen said. “Next shower song begins for Scaff ID 1052 in three minutes and thirteen seconds.”

Vinnie slipped the plastic tube from his coat on the hook and unwound the bundle of cloth inside. It loosened with a kind of silken sighing between his fingers.

“Keep a countdown for me, will you, Gen? Every thirty seconds.”

“Three minutes,” Gen confirmed. “And counting.”

Vinnie turned from the mirror. He let the towel fall as he pulled the springy black binder over his head. He wriggled and tugged, snugging it over his shoulders. In his excitement, he'd forgotten to work the zip, and so the binder caught between his chin and chest.

“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” Gen chirped.

“Freck,” Vinnie swore. He twisted his arm, catching the zipper hasp to inch it down. He squirmed and pinched the tight, cool, slippery fabric, pressing it over his breasts and then his ribs, his breath catching in both restriction and eagerness.

“Two minutes,” Gen said. “The next shower is cycling up to the proper temperature and pressure.”

“Thank you, Gen,” Vinnie bit out. The binder bunched under his shoulders, tangling against the friction of his still-damp skin. He bent his arms back, dancing a tight circle as he pulled and pulled to tug the binder in place. His shoulder cramped painfully and he let out a yelp.

“Lara,” Gran called from the door. “The computer lady's telling me it's time, can I come in?”

“Just a second, Gran,” Vinnie gasped.

“One minute and thirty seconds,” Gen corrected.

Vinnie's breaths panted in shallow gulps as he wrestled with the zip. It stuck fast between his breasts, leaving a full eight centimeters' gap at the top. He sucked in his breath and squeezed his elbows together, flattening his breasts against his chest as his sweaty fingers fussed with the hasp.

“Sixty seconds,” Gen sang.

“Freck freck freck,” Vinnie spat. It was too tight, and he was too big. He'd wasted the 80 creds he'd snagged on something that wouldn't even work. He felt the double stab of greed and vanity as his mind raced over all the useful things he could have done with that money—like replacing Barbara's motivator circuit or buying new shoes for Mello. Hell, even saving it would be better than throwing it away on something no one but him would ever see.

Then, with a sproing, the zip raced up, snapping its snaggle-teeth in an even line over Vinnie's chest.

Breathless, he whirled to face the mirror. The binder snugged tight over Vinnie's curves. He turned in profile to confirm. Yep, flat and straight as... as a boy.

“Thirty seconds,” Gen said.

Gran tapped at the door again. “Lara, dear. Everything okay in there?”

“Yes,” Vinnie said, spinning to see his body from every angle. “Yes, Gran. Everything is super-great.”

The binder felt comfortingly restrictive against the cage of his ribs. He thought with delight how every breath would remind him of its presence.

Of course, beneath the bulk of his work pants and his corded-knit sweater, no one could tell the difference. But Vinnie knew. He had things under control. And the binder was just a step in the process, a way to get used to how he would look once his top-surgery was done.

“Fifteen seconds,” Gen counted. “Fourteen, thirteen, twelve...”

“I'll take it from here, Gen. Thanks,” Vinnie said. He stepped to the door and used his Thread to spring the lock.

Grannye Gi stood in the doorway, eying him with a kind of bemused suspicion. She sniffed. “Coconut,” she said.

“It's in the caddy,” Vinnie said, stepping around her. “Use some if you like.”

She narrowed her eyes. They looked like the glittering buttons in an overstuffed cushion. “Oh, I will,” she said, muttering as she stepped into the bathroom stall. “Bananas and coconuts. What do I look like, the Queen of Tahiti?”

Vinnie went past rows of emergency evac suits, to the diner beyond, where Myra waited at the counter.

Fiction Friday: Limberjack

Limberjacks from Prairie Wind Toy Co.

For Fiction Flashback Friday, I'm sharing a poem that I've been kicking around a while. I grew up around some clever bluegrass musicians, including my lovely Aunt Lerlie, who would sing and provide percussion to their songs with a Limberjack doll.

I've been thinking a lot about those days with our Papa's family, mostly about how I thought they would never end.

So this little poem is about lost childhood and a generation that is slowly slipping away. Even so, we won't forget what they've given us.

This poem is for Aunt Lerlie.

Limberjack

Never again

Will the little wooden man

Dance as he did

Like he danced with you

And never again

Will his jitterbug limbs

Spin as they did

When he spun with you

In our childhood dreams

of watermelon teeth

and sweet gum trees,

He jigs and he jumps

To your knuckle-bump thumps

On the pine wood plank

where he danced

But never again

Will he swing and sway

As he did back then

In those huckleberry days

None of us learned

How to play the spoons

And the cuckoo clock springs

Have sprung too soon

And never again

Will they rewind

While the limberjack man

Lies on his side

Fiction Friday: Prophecy Collector

Prophecy Collector comes from last week's prompt, The Ironist, exercise 029 in The 3 AM Epiphany. This exercise encourages the author to play around with an unreliable narrator. The trick, however, is that this narrator knows more than she or he is letting on. The result is a twisted fairy tale told from the wry perspective of mantis bureaucrat Jacara Landfair Prentiss.

The image is from artofantasy.tumblr.com. I am trying to find and thank the artist for inspiration.

Prophecy Collector
by Celeste Hollister
Word Count: 796
Safe for work

My name is Jacara Landfair Prentiss. I sit at a desk, and I listen. That's my job. Listening. It's not up to me to interpret events.

Yes. Technically, my title is Prophecy Collector. I collect them and pass them Upstairs if they're worthy. Most of them are a bunch of 'woe-be-unto-earth' nonsense. Those I weed right out. On an average day, I'll hear half a dozen fuzzy forecasts from divining dragonflies and prognosticating pill bugs. But to receive a true revelation, an actual bonafide auguration, that is a rare thing.

In fact, in all my years at this desk, beneath the watchful compound eyes of Mother Moth, I have only seen it three times.

The first was the Prophecy of the Flood, and we all know how that turned out. Of course, that office is thirty meters beneath new sea level, so I suppose 'desk' in this case describes the job itself, and not the actual object. Haha, you catch my meaning, right? The juxtaposition of the desk as a symbol... Oh, right. Of course.

Would you like a morsel of mushroom while you're waiting? Tea leaf? No? Very well. Where was I?

Oh yes. The second. That was the Oracular Divination of the Bee Decimation. What a tizzy we were in over that one. I hear humankind went bonkers, but down here, we were more concerned with who would fill the niche. The moths lobbied for the job, but is was argued they were inadequately suited, given their nocturnal proclivities. Then the horseflies put in their bid, but can you imagine? Always playing about. Horseflies taking over for bees? Huh. I think not.

In the end, the contract went to the yellowjackets. Pity. Brutal blighters, the lot of them. Nonetheless, time went on and so did we. The insect kingdom adapts. It's what we do.

Maybe that's why I dismissed Miss Mouse. I don't go in for mammalians in general. Too hot-blooded for my taste.

And she was a pretty thing, too. Smooth and gray, with eyes like black water beetles. She wore a circlet of silver upon her nimble little head. Two pale pink ears poked up from beneath that delicate crown. I should have known, really...

Anyway, she fairly swept in, long whiskers twitching. “Please,” she said. “I must see the Weavers. It is a matter of life and death.”

I leaned upon my bent elbows and tsked. “My dear, you'll have to do better than that,” I said. “In this business, everything is a matter of life and death.”

Yes, I did say it exactly like that. As I told you, I dismissed her as a mouse. Well, you weren't here, were you. May I proceed?

Very well. She said, “I was not always a mouse. I was a girl, until two nights ago. I went to a wishing pool at midnight when the full moon reflected in its surface, and there I made a wish.”

I told her, “This is Prophecy Collection, Miss, not Wish Fulfillment. You'll find that department on the third floor.”

She went on as if she hadn't heard me. She said, “A fairy appeared and granted my wish. She gave me a flowing white gown and slippers made of snow.”

I know, I know. I thought glass as well, but she said snow.

The mouse went on. “The fairy told me I must return to the pool by midnight or I would return to my original form.”

She stared up at me then, her black eyes sparkling.

“You didn't make it back to the pool by midnight,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I did not.”

I leafed through the files on my desk. I thought wistfully of my home and my bed and the corpse of my last husband resting by the hearth.

I said, “If you don't have a prophecy, I'm afraid I cannot help you.”

She said, “Not a prophecy so much as a promise. For it is well-known that the Weavers serve the Fates and they should know, when I am restored, I am coming for them. Their curse made me their servant girl, and now I remember every vile thing they made me do.”

Yes, that is word for word what she said. I wrote it down. I stamped it. I sent it Upstairs.

No, I haven't a clue where she might have gone. She didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. My job is to sit at my desk and listen, which I've done. It's not up to me to interpret or judge. Now, pray excuse me. You've got your many hands full, and I've a new husband to behead.

Good day and good luck. You're going to need it.

Fiction Friday: Unrequited

I've decided to start a special section on this blog dedicated to Daily Writing Practice. Each week, I'll feature the best one (or an excerpt from a larger work) on my blog. For fun and stuff.

This one is a sci-fi piece, off-prompt, that explores an aspect of love. Hope you enjoy it. If you do, please feel free to comment and share. And if you don't like it, please let me know why. 

Unrequited

by Celeste Hollister

Word Count: 455

Safe for Work

In the end, we left empty-handed. We boarded our ship and left everything behind.

I dream about you, though. Such breathtaking splendor, those ice-penciled peaks, the crystalline pools, the star-spun cloth of midnight sky.

When I wake, I smell the cinnamon-fragrant reeds that waved at river's edge. I taste the honey-cool springs that fed the lake beside which we once slept.

It's easy, now, years hence. Deceptively simple to recall your glory, to forget the heartache. Even as I write these words, I feel the twinge in my fingers, once twisted beyond recognition by the jaws of that snarling monster. Though terror struck me blind at the moment of attack, I can look back and understand. It felt threatened. It was afraid. Or maybe it was hungry. Maybe I appeared like a tempting morsel as I paddled at the water's edge. As insignificant as a worm on a hook.

Either way, it was not the only creature to shed blood that afternoon. We killed it, and others. We left a trail of bones in our wake. After all you gave us, we answered with blood.

The doctor chides me. She says I should not focus on the past, that I should turn my eyes to the present moment, that I should live second to second, breath to breath.

I did that. I tried.

But every breath here is poison. Every second a lie. How can I explain that my heart remains fixed on a world light years away, beyond the reach of any of us? When people talk of finding love, do they only mean humans, or can a person also love a place?

I have no pictures. I lost my ability to sketch. I kept not a single stone, not a feather, nor a scale. Yes, I damaged the records containing your coordinates. They called it sabotage, but if we could not stay, then no one else would find you, not so long as I was alive to prevent it.

Now in the evening, I sit upon my rooftop. Beneath me, the city boils under a blanket of smog. My nostrils fill with the oily stink of cookfires and exhaust. My skin roughens from yet another scrim of blisters. The tea I drink tastes of sweat, and I long for a mouthful of your sparkling snow upon my tongue.

A creeping deluge slowly swallows earth. We'll roast to death long before the waters claim us. There is no hope that I will ever return. But if the ancients are right, that we choose our fate upon our passing from this life to the next, then I beg for us to be reunited.

Only then will I know peace.

Only then, in the end.  

New Year's Resolutions, 2016

2015 was the year that broke everything wide open. After years of sitting and waiting and 
worrying and debating, I risked it all. I quit teaching. My tiny child and I moved to another 
country. I published my novel, Reprieve. I got my heart broken by a man who abandoned us in 
Seoul. While that did suck, the rest turned out surprisingly well. And as Shakespeare says, “All's 
well that ends well.”

The really important part, though, is that this isn't the end. 2016 is just the beginning. There's a 
great quote by Marilyn Monroe: “Sometimes good things fall apart so that better things can fall 
together.” And Michael Ende says in The Neverending Story, “Nothing ends... Everything 
transforms.”

I really like that idea.

Each day, each year, we have the chance to change. And every year, I like to look back at who I 
was and who I am becoming. If we don't stop once in a while to have a look around, we may miss 
something. So this is me, having a look around.

Traditionally, I make goals in four categories: Health, Travel, Career, and a Reading Goal.

This year, I'd like to add an overall goal to be more generous. We try to give back in as many ways 
as we can. This year, I want to explore even more ways to help people, specifically people in the 
LGBTQ+ community.
Here are my goals for 2016. May everyone have a healthy, happy, and blessed year.
Health Goals      

1. Continue the Paleo/low-carb diet
2. Running Rewards
3. Daily Meditation
4. Cut back on screen time

When we moved back from Seoul, we moved in with my parents. My Mom's cooking is like some 
kind of special witchcraft. Her secret ingredient is bacon grease. With it, she can transform 
anything into an amazing southern comfort feast. Alas, it's about as healthy as eating mayonnaise 
straight from the jar with a Dorito.

So when we moved in, we made some changes to the menu. We're on a low-carb, mostly Paleo 
diet. My Mom and Dad have both lost twenty pounds since last March. I lost about seven pounds, 
but I gained it all back during the holidays (curse you Aunt Amy's asparagus casserole!)

Therefore, the goal here is to continue Paleo eating. I have also been running, and I got us 
memberships to the Activity Center. I've found that by rewarding myself after a set number of 
runs/workouts is a very effective motivator. After every 12 runs/workouts, I get to buy myself 
something nice – a nice book or some clothes. Total win-win!

As this category also deals with mental health, I would also like to maintain a state of mindfulness 
through the meditation techniques we learned in Intensive Outpatient Therapy (IOP) this fall.
One of my lifelong challenges is agoraphobia (which I'll expound upon in a later post), and I'm 
learning that meditation helps me manage anxiety associated with that condition.

With regret, I must admit, I suck at meditation. I seems like a simple thing, sitting still and 
quieting your mind, but my mind likes to scamper off in multiple directions, which is fantastic 
when I'm writing. Not so great when there's a battle of five armies raging in my head, and I'm 
trying to find a sense of peace.

I have three shiny new apps to help on this meditation journey: HeadSpace, Calm, and Stop-
Breathe & Think. It is my hope that these apps will guide me on the meditative path.

Bit of irony between the tools that will help achieve that goal and my final goal for this category. 
Through our IOP, I discovered that I spend a lot of time on my phones. Plural. I have two phones 
– one for business, one for games – and a third iPod device for books.

I alternate between the three of them, trailing charger cords about the house like I'm the Flying 
Spaghetti Monster. I use them for music, Facebook, Solitaire, Words With Friends, videos. The 
phones double as alarm clocks, so I am on a device from the moment I awake to the late hours 
when I wearily scroll through my Tumblr notifications one last time.

One thing we picked up in IOP is the idea that we should focus on one activity at a time. My 
brain loves to multitask, and the phones are perfect little enablers. I'm going to significantly cut 
back on the screen time this year. One way to do that is an app called Forest. This app allows you 
to put your phone into sleep mode. While its sleeping, a virtual forest grows. If you move to 
check your Instagram or answer a text, you kill the forest. This kind of proxy empathy works on 
me, so I'll use it.

I'm also going to implement device-free times like 'at the dinner table' or 'during family time'. I 
would never text while driving, so that's a given. I just want to be more present and mindful this 
year. That means less time looking at a glowy blue screen, and more time looking at the real 
world.Travel Goals

1. Plantation Tour
2. Road trip? Book signing tour?
3. Katrina: Hollywood or bust

Definitely on the books for Spring 2016, we have booked a plantation tour in Louisiana. This will 
include Katrina's first trip to New Orleans, a city which holds an odd allure for her. It could be in 
the name? Not sure, but we'll find out this March.

I also have a growing itch for another Epic Road Trip. This ERT would probably happen in the fall 
and would hopefully take us up the East coast to Maine, stopping in North Carolina, 
Pennsylvania, and New York along the way. Or, I may take us straight up through North Texas to 
Montana and possibly into Canada. This will require more research, something I love to do.

Katrina was invited to attend an acting/screenwriting workshop in Hollywood this July. We really 
want to see this happen. Since I'll be working for the San Marcos Parks & Rec department again 
this summer, I won't be able to ERT there with her. Nonetheless, it's an awesome opportunity 
that she will most likely attend.Career Goals

1. Publish Elsekind
2. Finish The Boy Who Painted Stars

This is one of the widest-openest parts of my life right now. Last year, I made the incredibly 
difficult decision to quit teaching. While I loved teaching and I am now and will always be 
devoted to my students, I realized last year that if I continue teaching, being an author would 
never be a reality. Both paths require the whole of a person's heart. I was still trying to do both 
and spinning in circles.

I published Reprieve, and people are reading it. Actually buying and reading it!

So I'm going to continue writing for as long as I can. Hopefully until I'm 140 years old and I ascend 
to a higher plane through some kind of virtual upload. That would be freakin' awesome.Reading Goal

I began keeping track of the books I've read after reading On Writing by Stephen King. He reads 
in the neighborhood of 80 books each year, and at the time I was struggling to make time for 
ten. The first year, my goal was 12 books – one a month – and I read 16.

Last year, my goal was 52 books – one a week – and I read 56. Of course, my own book, Reprieve, 
was on that list, but whatever, I read it. It counts.

This year my goal is to read 54 books. Maybe I'll read 60! I cannot wait to dive in to all of these 
wonderful worlds.

I track all of my reading on Goodreads. Occasionally, I also post reviews.

So that's it, my first look forward into the new year. May everyone have a terrific time as we 
mark another passage around the sun. 2016, this is just the beginning.

The Little Paris Bookshop - Book Review

The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The title is too narrow for all that this book encompasses. Though it begins with the quaint bookshop on a barge in the Seine, it rapidly expands beyond it, to the charming setting of the French canals, and then further south to Marseilles and Provence.
My critique of the book, however, does not stop with the title. Thought the writing is exquisite – truly masterful and lovely in some places – my frustration stems more from annoyance with the outdated notion that a man must complete a woman, or vice versa, in order to find happiness. In fact, the number of outmoded, non-progressive sex roles disheartened me, leading me to wonder if it is, perhaps, a cultural phenomenon. Do the French actually, readily embrace the Nina George's notion that, to paraphrase, 'women are horses that must be tamed by men, who must likewise use the rider's crop of their words and actions to soothe and cajole a woman's emotions?'
These narrow ideas about women and men triggered my involuntary gag reflex. That said and aside, the central relationship of the novel is surprisingly liberal. The author flirts with polyamory as a panacea of the romantic ills of the three main characters. Even at the end of the book, there is the suggestion of unfulfilled hopes and compatibility, so that in spite of its lock-step with present social roles and relationship dogmas, the author hints that there is a potential better way – more open, more accepting, and more forgiving.
There was nothing wrong with this book. It's a fine book with a fine plot. The characters live, love, and breathe within the boundaries of its pages. The only thing I disliked, apart from the  vaguely misleading title, was the somewhat cliched romance of its central plot.


View all my reviews

Operation Smoke Free, Day Two

Though I didn't get my poem done for today, pushing me further from my Poem A Day goal, I did write 1,200 words on the novel. My Aunt Ava and I went grocery shopping, effectively keeping her too busy to worry about smoking.

My great aunt, Avonne (I'm her namesake, hence my penname, Celeste Avonne), lives with Aunt Ava. Aunt Avonne is witty, kind, funny, and thoughtful. She has diabetes and is confined to a wheelchair. She tries really hard to be independent, because I think she is afraid of overburdening my Aunt Ava. Even so, Aunt Avonne needs help. Like this morning, when she was getting out of her shower, her useless bathmat slipped in the tub and she fell.

Ava immediately dialed 911. An ambulance came right out, checked Aunt Avonne for injuries and helped her get back into her chair.

The whole time, Ava was so calm and composed, I felt like she totally had the situation completely under control. We went about the rest of our day as if everything as A-Okay, normal street. And it was. When we got back from grocery shopping, Aunt Avonne was peacefully reading her suspense thriller novel and Katrina was doing her online RPG responses.

I cooked supper - positively Paleo peppers. They were delicious. Then it was time for Katrina to begin her classes (she starts them at 9 p.m. - oh, the benefits of home school!)

Even if Aunt Ava doesn't quit smoking in the next two weeks -- I hope she does -- something else good will come of it in the form of a heightened awareness of what my Aunt Ava experiences day to day taking care of Aunt Avonne. Also, Aunt Ava is kind of a badass for the way she handled that situation with such cool grace.

Wish us luck as we enter day two of the Operation Smoke Free. I still don't have a clever title for this endeavor.

2015 Poem A Day, Day Sixteen

Prompt for Day Sixteen:

For today’s prompt, write a science poem. Your poem could be about science in a general sense, but you can also latch onto a specific field or story. Maybe write a poem about the scientific method, or juxtapose science against another idea like love, war, or cuisine. Remember: Science is the springboard; which way you jump is up to you.

I played with this one a while. It's a bit simple, but I like Fibonacci sequences, so I like this, too. I hope that you do as well.

Fibonacci

One

Person

Looks up

Into the sky

To see the infinite possibility:

A billion galaxies filled with billions of stars

and imagines all of the breath and all of the life contained within.

Setback and bounce back

A little bummed tonight. I learned this morning that my claim for unemployment was rejected because I was not fired from my last job. Curse my impeccable work record!

That part is a joke, of course. I value a solid work ethic, but I had the possibility of getting a set amount of money each week for nine months, which meant that we could live our writer's life for the better part of a year. I could work four to six hours a day uninterrupted on writing, editing, and submitting, which is what it takes to really do the writing thing right.

Bonus, though: the editor at Ease Magazine accepted my latest travel article on Disney theme parks. That will be out at the beginning of May, and it's a legitimate paid writing gig that I truly enjoy.

In the meantime, I need to step up my efforts to find work.

2015 Poem A Day, Day Eight

Prompt for Day Eight:

For today’s prompt, write a dare poem. This poem could be written as a dare to someone. It could make a daring proclamation. It could involve a dare that someone has accepted…or refused. In a way, each day of this challenge is a dare to write a poem. Are you ready for the challenge?

This one was just fun. May you continue to dare, as I am right now with this writer's life!

Triple Dog Dare

When we were kids

it was a taunt:

Get in the water

Jump off the side

Climb into the branches

Don't try to hide.

Teenagers morphed us

into mouthy hooligans:

I dare you to kiss him

I dare you to try.

Then came college,

Then came life.

Then came bills

and marriage

and kids

and bills

and student loans

and heartbreak

and death.

Then it was

a four-letter word:

the dominion

of swaggering

children

and fools

Should I risk it?

Don't you dare.

But I do.

I dare you

I triple dog dare you:

Get out

Get up

Get busy

I dare you to do

what frightens you

I dare you

I dare you

I dare.

This one is for my awesome brother, my partner-in-dare. Love you <3 p="">

2015 Poem A Day, Day Six

Prompt for Day Six:

For today’s prompt, write a things-not-as-they-appear poem. Poetry is filled with metaphors, similes, symbols, and layered meanings, so this should be a softball prompt. If you’re struggling, look at your current surroundings, pick an object, and turn it into a metaphor for something. Or think of somebody in the real world (mail person, gas station attendant, etc.) and make up a secret double life for them. C’mon, you can do this.  

In reading the chapter, Elkton, Minnesota: Whatever's in Front of You, Natalie Goldberg reminds us that, "In writing you can know everything." She goes on to say something so beautiful and true, that it hurts sometimes to remember it: "You can have parts of others live in you."

This dovetails perfectly with today's prompt. Brewer encourages us to look at your current surroundings. Goldberg says write what's in front of you. That is the inspiration for today's poem: Something in front of me, but also a part of me.   

Dragonfly

Bound by beads,

and held in string

the cage of an age:

These dragonfly wings

Once was a button

upon a boy's lace,

but time has altered

how I present this face

Each coil of wire

each bubble of glass

a twist of the chain

held with a clasp

My amber once

a man's domain

how over time

this fate has changed

And I, a necklace,

was once a pin:

such transformations

between women and men

The substance of beauty

no matter the skin

takes to its wings

on what lies within.

Writing Practice - No Hindrances

For two decades, I have used Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones as a starting point for my writing exercises. I will open the book to a random page, read it, and get down to business. It often surprises me that the same pages I've read over and over can strike me in different ways in separate times of need, offering me the precise insight I need to get to the next phase of life and writing.

Here is what came to me this morning:

When you accept writing as what you are supposed to do, after you've tried everything else--marriage, hippiedom, traveling, living in Minnesota, or New York, teaching, spiritual practices--there's finally no place else to go. 

I may be technically homeless and unemployed, but in truth, this lull between traveling and teaching is a gift. There really is no place else to go but to write. I have been running and running from it for years. I sat down and wrote a novel six years ago, and it is collecting cyber dust. The Universe has granted me this quiet time to write, to edit, and to submit (both literally and spiritually).

Goldberg goes on to say: You can't depend on its going smoothly day after day. It won't be that way.

This is also good news. Rhythms may vary. Life continues to happen all around us. Rain storms. Deadlines. Doctor's appointments. Keep pushing. Keep writing.

There is no place else to go.

Thank you, Natalie.

The Doctor

We wrote imitation poems based on Jack Prelutsky's The Witch. My students did a whole range of beautiful poems, everything from comedy to tragedy to poems about food (Los Tacos, yes!). This one is mine.

The Doctor

The TARDIS slips, time vortex trips
through all of time and space
The Doctor lies but never dies
and wears a changing face

The Doctor flies through starry skies
His companion is Rose
With Captain Jack, who rarely lacks
A host of evil foes

The Daleks say "Exterminate."
With Angels just don't blink
The Sontarans are on the run
The Doctor's yells "Just think!"

Geronimo or Allons-y!
He's always leaping in
to set to right, to fight the fight
He doesn't always win

For though he's odd, this lonely god
will burn like fire and ice
Unless he finds some peace of mind
he'll pay a weighty price

Updates the TheChamberedHeart.com

Stopping in today to update the BookList. I've added the two most recent titles, The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini, and Anthem, by Ayn Rand. I posted a very brief review on GoodReads for Anthem, and you can find that here.

I'm also adding three new desktop images to the Artwork section. This normally happens at the end of a school year: Left Brain checks into rehab, which allows Right Brain to take her turn at the wheel. This year, Right Brain has found inspiration in James Durbin. Rest well, Left Brain. See you in August.

In the meantime, I'm going to be working on Dear Universe, the NaNoWriMo novel I started working on two years ago. Don't know where it's going yet, but I'm eager to find out. My goal is to have a rough draft finished before August 15th, so wish me luck!