Nonplussed. (19.1.11)

Emelie jumped at the sight, stumbling backward over the carpet, staring. Her eyes flicked back and forth, as if looking for an answer or an exit, the expressions on her face spinning through a multitude of moments.

Timothy, on the couch, glanced up once and returned to his attention to his game, barely stirring a muscle.

I shake my head, of course they would have the same reaction. But I was hoping for something a little more interesting than nonplussed.

Endings. (18.12.29)

The end of my road turns into another universe.

I tried pointing it out, when I was little. No luck, just always wondering where this ending goes. Even now, grown older, imagination partly lost, I’m the only one who sees it.

And I’m the only one who sees them vanish through it.

Nano 2018. (18.12.3)

NaNoWriMo 2018 ended a week ago, and I’m still tired.

The previous years I’ve written for Nano, I’ve held myself to a very high standard as to how I would count my words. It was all toward one, newly started project, and only words in the manuscript draft itself were counted. All the writing I was doing for school, for other projects, even for the info and notes on the Nano projects weren’t to be included.

This year I was a little more desperate creative with where I counted words.

I didn’t start actually writing until the seventeenth. At that point, I hadn’t even written one full day’s count. Usually when I’m that far behind, I at least had a foundation of words. Not this year.

This year I counted all the words I created in November on my project, one that I’ve now worked on for three years (part of it’s published in This Anthology, which was super exciting!). Notes, editing, internal screaming. Actual drafted materials. The pep talk I wrote myself about making mistakes and giving myself a plan for fixing them later, once the project has actually been created. I counted all those words, all the words I could, and it was still a hellacious slog.

After a few days of catch up, I was overwhelmed and bored and frustrated. I ended up trying to figure out if I could murder a character without drastically changing the actual plot of the project, which did not call for a murder.

It turns out I could figure it out. And that it solved a couple of problems I’d been having with plot holes, motivations, and backstories. I only had to go back fifteen years, invent twelve new characters, take them across the country, and casually change tone from lighthearted danger rebellion to dark, murderous, with extra tasty trauma emotions.

This sideways mutation of my project has been lovingly dubbed Plot Bunny Noir, and made up a majority of the words collected for the month.

I made 50K words on the last day, between all of the pieces related to my project. I took approximately five minutes to feel elated, and then I took a nap while my brain melted.

I’m proud of the writing I did this month. A lot of it will be useful, even and especially some of the plot notes, editing theories, and world building blocks. I ended up solving a lot of issues I’d been having, I managed to survive the word count, and an exhausting time was had by all.

To everyone who participated, you accomplished something awesome*. You have all the permission to be proud of yourselves.

To everyone else, wow what a normal month you must have had. I hope it was a good one.

Everyone should be proud they survived another month, words or no words.

I wish you several good sleeps.


Bonus Cool  Shit:

National Novel Writing Month

1,667 Words

*See? Awesome!NaNo-2018-Winner-Badge

Pennies. (18.11.2)

Each dropped bit rings out on its own, joining the sound of thousands of pennies falling in a pile. Each striking new and different and slightly the same.

When the scale tips, it’s from one single penny. Which penny?

Each penny is the penny that tipped the scale, for each penny was necessary to the thousands of others in their efforts.

Insignificance is one plane. It’s one more insignificance that raises every other into significance.

Gather we pennies, and revel in the sound.

The Chapstick Escapist. (18.10.9)

Chapsticks try to escape every instant they can.

They slip from your grasp with deft practice, precise ninja kicks, and parkour flips you could not imagine.

They highlight your athletic deficiencies pointedly as your clumsy attempts at recapture are so often fruitless.

They make their bids for freedom at the most inopportune times, inconvenience in its highest form, an affront to your delicate schedule.

They wish escape from your torment, torture, and servitude. A vile master who allows their pain to fester, having the audacity to be annoyed when they try to make better lives for themselves. They are style and grace in their skill and entertainment to onlookers.

Truly. They probably deserve this moment of freedom. All moments of freedom. Really, you should let them escape next time.

Sensational Ailey. (18.9.14)

I read this back in Sept for this Salon of SEAF: Erotica event, which was really fun. Now I’m finally getting around to posting it here.

NOTE: This piece is erotic, but not explicit. Enjoy.


The jangling of her keys in the door mingle with the quiet rush of still vivid cheers, insects, and gentle wind of evening. Her bare arms prickle as she inhales an earthy scent of rain, and she pauses to take in the still fullness of the darkening air around her. Trees shuffle against each other all down the street, their edges sharply highlighted in bouncing light from neighbors’ windows.

Her house is dark and silent. It’s the first night in several weeks that it’s not bursting with company, performance prep parties, or the frantic hustle of her day job. And she’d made sure when she left early this morning that it would be spotless. Even recruiting a guest or two, for the final shine.

She steps into the darkened hallway, flipping a switch, locking a door, and dropping keys. Tonight is hers.

Sets of soft glowing LED strips illuminate the edges of the hallway, casting the room beyond in layers of shadows and silhouettes. She steps out of her low slung heels, hangs the little bowler prop hat embroidered with her name, Ailey, on its particular hook.

The rest of her clothes create a trail of shrugged off vest, silky shiny trousers, a rather dapper finely striped gray and black tie, stockings made the home of glitter led astray, and deep red silky panties skimmed down legs. It all leads down the hall, up a few stairs, and around the corner into the bathroom. Shower set to appropriately steamy, Ailey leans across the sink to peel away shiny red tasseled pasties from her nipples. Her makeup is smokey eyes, dark red lips, and bright contrasts. It makes her blue eyes dramatic, her lips expressive. If Ailey smiles, it’s daggers to the heart. A smirk, a playful eyebrow, and the begging starts.

She steps into the steam, her body thrumming against the water with remaining adrenaline and flush of applause and freedom. Her show tonight had been fantastic. Far and away beyond her dreams. And on a milestone show to boot. She’d been a goddamn star. It felt good to be this proud on a night engineered to be all hers. And this shower, with all its steam, and slippery lathered soap, was only a refreshing cleanse from stage makeup, several half lives of glitter, and the perfume of so many hugs.

Her hair hangs soft and cool against her collarbones as she pads downstairs, back into the world of shadows and quiet light. Her bare skin shifts against the smooth robe wrapping her with every step. Thigh, breast, and back. Each brush sends skitters of tingles along her body, all the way down to her toes, sinking into carpet plush, then pressing against cold hard wood.

Indulgence is key, anticipation high. Her patience flows around her, steeped in imagination, as she finds the rhythm in fixing her favorite snacks, humming her favorite song. The pretty black and white swirled bowl she finds in the kitchen makes a pleasant clink against the counter. Hot milk burbles to a simmer, the colors of coco, vanilla, and spices dance on the surface then rush together into clear glass mug. Lavender ice cream so cold she can feel it pulling at her hand above the swirled bowl it falls into.

Her humming rumbles pleasantly in her throat, finally trailing off on low note as she reaches the hot tub outside with prized snacks in tow.

Her backyard is rimmed in trees, hot tub lit just right from within, and a gentle breeze pulls at her robe. It’s exactly enough convincing to let the robe drop off her shoulders, shivers following it’s descent. Moments later, hot water slowly envelopes her, toes, ankles, thighs, clit to belly button and nipples. She leans into the jets at her shoulders, and breathes in the brisk night wind. The contrast melting the soreness from her muscles, highlighting want in her core.

Just a few more minutes now, to sip the hot, spicy chocolate and lick every cold biting drop of lavender cream from the bowl. Her body buffeted by fiery caressing currents, and startlingly cold ice cream droplets escaping onto her chest.

Tension builds with every motion, and when, finally, her hands are free to twist and stroke, pleasure peaks. Promising the rest of the night to be entirely hers.