Category Archives: Fun

Some Not-Poetry


Lying on the floor, preparing to push out another 500 words before I let my manuscript rest for the day, in my underwear

In the path of a very pleasant ocean breeze, and music playing

Listening to Liam draw and whistle at the workbench beside me…


I myself am tucked neatly under my writing desk, laptop propped against the foot rest,

Watching my toes dance, reflected in the screen while my face remains dark.

I harvested another tomato today. Would have been two, but the caterpillars beat me to one.


Ah well. Small victories. This is a good day.


Classroom Scribbles – Word Dump


Bored in class I end up writing things. I’m not even sure if it’s poetry, but I’m fond of these ones, even if they’re awful.

There’s a burning in my head,
and a turning in my bed,
a churning, a whirling,
a visceral madness of flesh.
I feel this heat within me,
a fleeting need beneath me-
It’s bleeding, seething,
a hunger deep inside my Earth.
I want to feel you pressed,
dressed in silk, distressed, impressed,
pleasantly intense, a hand on my chest,
a universe in two souls.

And somehow here
beneath the light we
in velvet swaddled lie;
breathing lightly, held
‘gainst heaving breast and
furrowed brow,
howling to find our patience bare
midst naked trees and morning frost…
Bent as lovers when love is lost.

Do I fancy myself a writer? I ask,
as I nurse my airline wine,
and crunch my airline ice.

She comes for the trains.
The harmonic roar as they hurtle
along their rails;
The culminating and pillow-soft
as they reach their peak.

Pity about the truck.
I was really looking forward
to my wedding cake.

Somewhere else
and held here safe
stifled, whole, and hungering.
A thing of grief, melancholy,
This a thing that’s holy,
A life, a time in liminal space.

She wore a
stag’s head
around her
her hair
gloriously messy.

Calling crows, or ravens really,
I find myself confused by them, nearly
at the gallow’s gate where they hold court.
But then the corvids need a name
as therein lies their call to fame,
for a murder (or assassination?)
Here gathered for a short drop
and a sudden stop.

Marx looks like a man who
knew most people were stupid,
but laughed easily and
took great pleasure in intelligent

Holding words between our teeth…
Kiss me and we shall shake the universe.

Held halfway between all the nowhere places, hazy, blind and unknowing;
Faceless, like all things, neither here nor there
in time and space.
In flux, liminal, and lost.

I would devour you whole.
I would suck the sun from your lips.


Somewhere far and cold and wide

Vast and seemingly inbetween

Point A and point B,

You and me,

Elsewhere above it all.

Find me, hide me,

Loosely, languishing on the kitchen floor,

Lost in kisses.

Locked lips in haste, this nowhere place,

Where we forgot what came before.

Tongues and gazes and the flight

Of alabaster rose, nipples that float beyond

Me, high, limitlessly adrift,

As you reach above, laughing,

Dusted with paint and with flour.

I gentle your hips with caresses, these murmurs,

Words with nothing but love in their teeth.

The river of your spine, the forest of your ribs,

These valleys and caves, yet unexplored,

Imploring, demanding, wet like wax,

Like your eyes of emerald and skin of gold.

I think I love, I dream,

I fall to earth euphoric.

Icarus and Midas


Her skin tastes like salt.

My tongue points behind my lips and as I bend my head to place another delicate kiss along the sharp edge of her hip, that dainty place between thigh and belly, I can taste her; clammy and smooth and salted like a fish. Her legs twitch slightly under my hands and the faintest of giggles erupts from her cherry-flushed lips. She sighs with relief. I smile. My fingers pull a cup of ocean up along her ankle, right up her calf to her knee, letting it slip back into the vast abyss in tiny transparent rivulets.

Under the stars she shimmers, all bald head and gracefully bony body, a delicious nakedness that has nothing to do with our current nudity. Out here beneath the night sky her bad girl façade is gone, leaving the meat of her, the brilliant and fragile beauty that enchanted me so completely. Something in what we had done calmed her, allowed her a moment freedom from the defensive shell she’d carried with her all this time.

I’m still alive! Tidbit.

Muses (WiP) Update


8 hours worth of painting yielded this:


This was after about 3 hours.

Also, look at my half of the studio. Isn’t it awesome? :3

End result for the Honey Muse. She’s tempermental and difficult to paint, so I have a looooong way to go with her.

And my camera apparently can’t deal with glare.

“Muses” oil on board.

I Swore To Myself I’d Never Do A Harry Potter Roleplay…


Oberon poked a finger through the cage of his hyperactive owl, ignoring the people milling about him to brush his fingers through his feathers. The little black-eyed tawny owl fluffed itself and peered around it with the wild curiousity Oberon didn’t seem to possess. It had occurred to him that perhaps he should feel something- excitement, perhaps, or nervousness- but he still felt numb, in shock. His sister did all the organising when their parents weren’t there, fluttering in confusion. He felt almost sorry for them. Discovering that their children were different, were other, had been an unpleasant shock for them. They had tried to be proud of the twins, but since Heaven collapsed on the kitchen floor, their concerns for the twins’ welfare had only deepened. They felt helpless. Their helplessness made Oberon feel guilty, like he and Heaven had been some sort of curse, while Heaven herself drifted along in her own world.

Thinking of her, he glanced up, his gut jumping to his throat in the moments where he couldn’t see her. Her name forced itself up his throat but got caught behind his teeth, which he clenched when he finally spotted her chatting to a robust, talkative old lady. Heaven didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what the woman was saying; the woman didn’t seem to be paying much attention to Heaven. Instead she talked endlessly with grand gestures, smiling to disguise glazed eyes filled with forced cheerfulness. People like that annoyed Oberon. They reminded him a little too much of a defective nanny.
Rasputin squaked as someone bumped his luggage trolley and Obe twisted to shout out to the offender… But a hostile glare from the sharp-faced boy silenced him. As a ten-year-old, Oberon wasn’t yet aware that a face like that belonged to cruelty. He only saw an ugly curl to the lip, a squint to the eyes, some kind of passive anger that had nothing to do with him.


Heaven was calling.

Struggling with the sideways drift of the luggage cart, Oberon made his way over to his sister, tugging his beanie down to his eyebrows. Heaven was looking about with incredulity, seeming almost affronted with whatever information the lady had provided her with. He responded with the sluggish glance of a boy who really, really didn’t want to be standing in the middle of a crowded train station with a crazy sibling and assorted animals. He glanced around for the sharp-faced boy, but he was nowhere to be found. Something uncoiled in his belly. Oberon hadn’t realised it, but he’d been on guard since the collision.

“Did she just tell us to run ourselves, our pets and our trollies straight into that brick wall? That very sturdy and painful looking brick wall? Do you think she’s mad?”

Oberon frowned. His sister threw him a glance to tell him a facial expression was not an adequate response. Expressing just how much attention he had paid to his parents efforts to teach elecution and poise, he added, “I dunno?”

The brick pillar in question seemed quite solid. A little too clean for a packed station, but it could be clean for any number of reasons. He was sure that if he threw paint at it, the paint would stick. Or chewing gum. Or soot. All things he didn’t have in his possession. Heaven’s expression was beginning to flicker with the uncertain panic she picked up in new or unexpected situations. Soon she would either burst into tears or into an anxiety attack, or both, and the last thing Oberon wanted was a scene. He could just imagine having to explain it to a police officer: “I’m sorry sir, see, my parents just dropped us here… Yes, yes, even though we are under the legal age limit to be alone… and we are trying to get to a station that doesn’t apparently exist so we can go to a magical school where they teach us, well, magic, and my sister couldn’t figure out how we should walk through that pillar over there so she freaked out. Oh, and she is a bit weird in the head. A bit of a spaz. Would you mind directing us to platform nine and three quarters so all this can be sorted?”

That wouldn’t go down well at all.
It couldn’t be the case anyway. He had already invested too much hope into this. To find out it was all fake would be heartbreaking to he and Heaven both. They had taken this as a sign that they weren’t evil or insane or some kind of mutant. There were others like them. Others like them who could teach them how to make it stop.
A place where Heaven wouldn’t be a freak anymore.
A place where Oberon wouldn’t be the freak’s weirdly-named brother.

He couldn’t give up on that.

“Hev, I don’t think…” He twisted his trolley around until it faced the aburdly clean pillar. “This is supposed to be a school of magic, right? We’ve come this far.”

Just in case, he tugged an apple from his pocked and tossed it between his hands before lobbing it at the pillar. It flew cleanly through the air before colliding messily with the bricks, transforming smoothly from apple to apple puree and splattering nearby passengers with yellow sludge.

Oberon hadn’t expected that.


Heaven’s lower lip began to quiver imperceptibly.

No. I’m not giving up this easily. His stomach churned at the thought. He was the brother. He was older, if only by a couple of minutes.
It was his job to look after her. One more glance at that confused, fragile face and he knew what he was going to do, with a child’s foolish determination.

Oberon lifted Rasputin’s cage with a grunt (he was an awfully heavy bird) and plonked it atop Heaven’s luggage, just in case this went exactly as he expected it to. School had introduced him to any number of bruises and he hoped that maybe this time wouldn’t be too different.

Screwing up his face and shutting his eyes, guiding the trolley with one hand and an elbow as he held his glasses to his face, he launched himself forward. There was enough distance between himself and the brick for him to build up some speed. Soon he was running, hearing the pillar come ever closer, closer, closer- and expecting that crash, he braced himself…. and kept on running.

Oberon opened his eyes and immediately fell over, losing his grip on the trolley, watching stunned as it drifted away from him at speed down the platform, eventually drifting to the left and smashing into the side of a fire-engine red steam train.

No way…”

Wizards still used steam engines?


“I can’t do this without you!”

The wind whips my voice from my lips and casts it out into the dark, ripping over the rooftop, catching in Sierra’s hair, echoing in her ear. She turns her head towards me slightly, her eyes unmoving from the city below. She refuses to meet my gaze. This yearning I feel, this need, it hinges on that glance. Those stunning green eyes, so sharp, so clear. She looks at me and knows who I am, who everyone is. One of a kind.

She’s perched on the edge of the roof, barefoot, clad in silky lingerie and a rough brown farm coat. The coat catches in a powerful gust, making her stumble, and for a moment my heart is in my throat as I wait for her to tip, to windmill, to fall into the oblivion nine stories below. She heaves up onto her tiptoes at the edge. I throw my hands out to catch her but pain shoots through my belly- like needles pushing through my hips- and in that horrible, fatal moment, I can’t move. I can’t do anything but grit my teeth and glare through tears at her wobbling silhouette… But then she catches her balance, splaying her fingers in the air, a stifled gasp escaping those smudged, ruby-red lips.

Tidbit: Trite Nonsense

Book Review: A Density of Souls


Having not yet finished reading the book when I started writing this, I can only comment on what I have realised so far. When I have finished it, no doubt I’ll write some more. ^_^

The reviews for A Density Of Souls differ largely, fluctuating between 1-2 star ratings with bitter comments, and 5 star rave reviews. This book is a troublesome one that covers a lot of incredibly unpleasant realities, bundling up a dozen serious experiences that happen to people everyday, and then wraps them all up in a wonderfully written (if complicated) story. My guess is that the people who enjoyed the book are probably people who have experienced one or more of these- whether the destruction of friendships, the emotional damage of abusive relationships, the trauma of death and suicide, the difficulties of mental illness or the social otherness of being gay- and these people find themselves drawn to the characters they feel the most connected to. It takes a talented writer to involve the readers in what has been written, to absorb them in the story. I think those who didn’t like the book didn’t feel that connection, hadn’t felt those feelings.

When I picked up A Density of Souls, I expected Christopher Rice’s writing to be a pale imitation of his mother’s. I couldn’t have been more wrong. He has his own style and while some of the places mentioned are familiar to Rice fans, everything is somehow different. Intense and beautiful and ugly all at once, and sometimes, incredibly uncomfortable. I would recommend anyone read it, regardless of how they might feel about it. It’s certainly an experience to be had.

That said, they say that an author’s first published novel tends to be heavily autobiographical. The way some of this is written… Well. I wouldn’t be surprised.

5 stars.

Adventures in Queerdom


So perhaps I am finding my feet on this rainbow-brick-road that I have discovered myself wandering, dancing awkwardly, unfamiliar with this new beat. I haven’t been sure, but I’m finding myself steadier and steadier these days. My feet aren’t shaken on their helter-skelter travels.

The girl.
A first in my exploration of fearlessness.

She was cute, rectangular glasses, blue neckerchief. Her hands were soft and cold and brushed mine like an electric shock. It made me giddy and silly and I babbled something about being obsessive compulsive about organizing things. She laughed and said I could obsessive-compulsively organize her table anytime. I think I swooned. I fled.

Jai teased me and flicked a game cover at my head, chastising my shyness. He pointed out the neckerchief. He repeated her words as he had heard them, tinged with his arrogant certainty.

It was the neckerchief that convinced me that maybe all would not be lost if maybe… This once… I grabbed my girl-love-lust and ran with it. One must be fearless, no? Fearlessness in all things, not just adversity and the unknown.

We (Jai and I) went for dinner. I wrote my number and a brief apologetic compliment on a scrap of a receipt. My fingers were slippery with avocado and sweet onion sauce.
I fought down the feelings of terror and nausea, uncomfortably aware of the fact that what I was doing was not only something I could never see myself doing, let alone do with a (socially acceptable) male, and certainly never with a girl…

But with Jai’s hand in the small of my back and his laughter in my ear, I made my way to her work and stood there, furiously blushing, enveloped in awkward silence. She was busy.

I handed her workmate the note.
I fled from the store.
I watched Jai peer over shelves and customers for a few minutes before he returned to my side.

“She’s looking around,” He said with his trademark cocky grin. “and she’s smiling.”

I got her message this evening, after I got home and was able to charge my exhausted phone.

She wants to meet for coffee.

I feel fearless.