Don’t Forget to Set the Table (Writing Prompt)

What are your characters eating? Drinking?

Set the table and invite us into your story with tempting descriptions.

Is the food/drink new to the character or is it the usual?

What is the usual?

Is it wine? Is it red wine or white wine? Do they prefer Merlot or champagne?

Maybe one of them prefers liquor? Water? Soda?

Is it smooth, bitter, dry or sweet?

Add your own beef, chicken or lamb – heck serve it to a vegetarian. How did they respond?

Light a candle [or not] and cook up something imaginative from the elements in the photo.

Groovy huh? Write on!

Write What You would Love to Read

I was just thinking…

For NaNoWriMo writers to average 50,000 words in 30 days they will need to write 1666.666 words per day. I can already hear some character gasp, “Six, six, six. It must be the work of the devil!”

Bwahahaha. I suppose it could be if you are into that sort of thing.

Hey, write what you would love to read.

Ten words a day or ten thousand, focus first on your story. That is my 2¢ worth but what do I know? I’m just sitting over here in the cheering section, waving my pom-poms and goading the contestants.

I am not much into writing under pressure these days but I do like to mentor and I encourage others to take the NaNoWriMo challenge, especially new writers. Do it even if this is the first thing you have ever written.

Don’t worry about failing the challenge; there is not a NaNoWriMo jail. (Pst. You can be a NaNoWriMo-er without registering. 😉 It’s like exercising at home.) And remember I am over here cheering you on. I’ll even try to post a picture/prompt/ mental exercise throughout the month of November.

Sail on NaNoWriMo-ers!

What do you see?

That is not just a sailboat with a blimp above it. Describe. Describe. Describe. I.e. the color of the clouds/sky; the lake/ocean/water; the shape of the blimp; the shadows/silhouettes. What type of boat is it? Where is it going? Why? What data is the blimp collecting–who does it belong to?What is the spatial relation between the boat/the blimp/the land? What is just out of view in the treeline? How fast is the sailboat/blimp traveling? Describe… Readers want details and they are so fun to write.

Happy Halloweenie Ghouls and Boils (From Start to Finish – Tuesday’s Tell All)

Hold out your eyes for a Halloween treat.

Smoke Free is a weird little story conceived in the smoke of a brush pile. The photos below show the cover from start to finish. Hold out your eyes and I’ll give you a little insight plus the beginning and the ending of Smoke Free.

Smoke Free is probably the only book cover we have not changed at least a dozen times. The truth is I have never wanted to change it. I love this cover and the image of that little pumpkin smoking a cigar never fails to amuse me. (I have the husband to thank for that.)

I had never heard of Irwin Smutter before that day and he (like the cigar smoking pumpkin) still amuses me with his absolute weirdness; him and the bizarre world he resides in.

Shall I cue the witch’s laugh again?

No!

Okay, here you go.

In the beginning…

Irwin marched down the stark white hallway with the impudence of a man on a mission. At the end of corridor, a glass door awaited with the words FREE YOUR SELF painted in large gold letters. He raised a curled fist to knock but decided against it. Easing the door open he called out, “Yoo-hoo. Is anyone home?” when no one responded he grudgingly entered the room and scanned its contents.

The room appeared empty other than an oversized sofa. Irwin reposed himself against the frigid vinyl, crossed his feet and sighed. A lively timbered scene covered the wall opposite the door, designed in such a way it almost looked like a window. Beyond the dull sheen of the pretend window was a forest where rays of sunshine cut through a smoky haze. The remaining walls were un-textured, pale and bare. The room smelled of sandalwood and acetone, a bizarre sweetness that sickened and comforted him at the same time. Irwin shifted nervously on the stiff upholstery in search of a warm spot. There was none.

The faux leather, the lifeless walls, the fake window – it was all too unsettling. Nothing is real, he thought, stretching his arms until his hands met above his head. Fads! The world has been reduced to kooks, phonies, and fads. Reassured by his own summation, Irwin interlaced his fingers and stretched further. When the joints in his entwined hands refused to pop, he rested them at the base of his neck.

Smoking cessation. Yeah, right. It was not Irwin’s idea. Irwin enjoyed smoking. The pungent smell of a fresh-lit cigarette made bitter coffee sweet. Smoking was one of the few things he looked forward to each day.  A good smoke, a little booze, a lot of caffeine and Evie. His wife was a non-smoker and she did not mind, she had never complained, but again, Evie never complained about anything. Evie was a saint. So what am I doing here? Peer pressure. That was the only logical explanation. All of his friends had stopped smoking months ago. There is nothing more annoying than an ex-smoker. Irwin’s mind zigzagged trying to connect the dots, the trail of crumbs that had lead him here to this place where he was expected to free himself.

Evenings at the local tavern were not the same, instead of cheers and jokes the gang sat around bellyaching about a handful of smokers in the far corner. It wasn’t fun anymore. Irwin thought as he strained to recall the last time he had hung out with any of them, the last time he had stopped by the saloon on the way home. He could not remember. A few of his buddies had dropped by the house for a beer once or twice a week but then…

It occurred to Irwin he had been isolated for some time; cut off from society. Who needs them? Not me, I don’t have time for chewing the fat. He dug his heels into the armrest, tensed his abdominal muscles and forced a few halfhearted sit-ups. I’m healthy, a hell of a lot healthier than those slobs. Heck, Frank can’t see his ding-a-ling without a mirror. Irwin laughed aloud at the image of his friend groping for his penis. Poor bastard. He groaned, starring up at the flat alabaster ceiling, Frank’s a good guy. The kindest, most nonjudgmental man I have ever met… hey! Irwin bolted upright, Frank is my best friend.

When the sparkle abated from the realization, Irwin flopped back into a prone position and began a set of leg-lifts. Good ole Frank. Poor bastard. Dean and Will, now there is a couple of bonafide jerks!  Irwin scoffed to himself, holding his un-embellished feet at heart level, Health fanatics! You can smell Dean a mile away— wreaking of curry and cumin. And Will, with his dead man farts –methane poison. Both of them—with their stained yellow skin.

Irwin snickered at the memory of Frank again, the last memory of the saloon he could clearly recall. Dean and Will who were frequently referred to as Mutt and Jeff, and the sight of their jaundiced eyes–unwavering.  Long, lanky Dean slumped over his mug of warm Bud, squatty Will knocking back shots of cheap Vodka and the rank cloud of gas that always followed them. “Dang! What are you two eating?” Frank had asked. When neither answered he pressed on, “It smells like you’re on the verge of shittin’ a dead man. What are you little tree huggers eatin’? Are y’all eatin’ people?” Irwin recalled Frank’s hearty laugh at his own joke and smiled, until he remembered the response. Dean– shivering but never looking up.  Will with that cocky glare, wriggling his thin eyebrows and slamming his glass down on the table for effect, grinning through pink jagged teeth. “No one under the age of eighteen.”

“Screw it.” Irwin said aloud as he swung himself into a sitting position. He grabbed the package of Camels from his shirt pocket. Despite the shaking, he managed to free a cigarette without breaking it. He tapped the filter against his palm a few times and gently set it between his lips. His right hand habitually swept the pocket of his 501 jeans to retrieve the Zippo. Irwin studied the chrome lighter, rubbing his thumb across the engraving. “I loved your heart too Evie.” He whispered. Within the sound of two clicks, a beautiful orange flame emerged. Irwin closed his eyes and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. The hissing crackle of dried tobacco had always eased his trembling. The feel of his Zippo, a gift from Evie, had always soothed his mind. I LOVE YOUR HEART was barely visible after years of stroking. He exhaled and imagined the writings of e.e. cummings. i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart). He fantasized about Evie, her soft white breasts against his back as she convinced him to be more accepting of lowercase letters and lower class people. Perfect breasts that now–

Just before The End…

Irwin and Evie spent their days and nights exploring endless trails. Time meant nothing to them now. Irwin was not sure how long he had been in this place, but it had been long enough to learn a few things. One, the sun never goes down. Two, there is no need for sleep and three; sometimes the boils come on slowly. He consoles himself with knowing Evie never minded his smoking.

Happy Halloween!

Available wherever e-books are sold.

Smoke Free narrated by Troy McElfresh

 

 

 

 

Skippy Red (Mad Monday)

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Skippy Red

In the house where he lived void of laughter and kisses

In the room where he smoked and the little dog pisses

Where the ghost of a bloke stirs a foul reminiscence

Lies the frame of a maimed Skippy Red

~

Go down, go down poor Skippy Red

Alas, alas no water to tread

No ropes, no planks, no breaking of bread

In your world of endless abysses

~

Go on, go on let sleeping dogs lie

A new crib for you, twas a good day to die

Hoist a fresh cup, here’s spit in your eye

Abaddon is better off dead

Farewell, farewell Skippy Red

MORE (531x800)

 

From MORE: Short Stories & Such

Short Stories & Such Audio narrated by Robert Scott Sullivan

I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghost (Sneaky Saturday)

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Yesterday’s Free-for-all was kind of a Freaky Friday, let’s call today’s Sneaky Saturday. As in sneak a peak at Chapter 14 from book 3 in the Clan Destiny series, Unjustified Favor. If you’re not already familiar with these cooky characters well… that’s a shame. animated-gifs-ghosts-17

 

 

Chapter 14

It was midnight before the van pulled up at the estate, and just as Tallulah had said, there were two huge iron letters hanging at the entrance, LE. The landscape looked much as it did when Maggie had left it in the dead of night years ago. She could see the Spanish moss blowing silently in the breeze while the ancient oaks that gave it refuge stood silent and proud.

The entire house was lit except for the master bedroom. She felt sure the suite had intentionally been left dark. In the moons glow she could see through the rails of the balcony into her old boudoir, but only lines and shadows.

She fully expected to have anxiety when she arrived but oddly enough, she did not. She could recall the beating and the humiliation with barely a rise in her heart rate. She could remember her stillborn son without an overwhelming sorrow. Linda watched her closely, snooping just at the edge of her sister’s emotions. At the first sign of stress they would head into town and get a room. But Maggie was calm, eerily calm.

“Are you okay sweetie?” Larry whispered as he took Maggie’s hand.

“I’m fine.” She smiled, pulling his hand to her face.

The children had slept for the last four hours of the trip and when Mary put the van in park it roused them.

“I’ll bet we’ve got a bunch of wet bottoms.” Maggie said as she lifted Lawren from the seat.

“Yeah, we should change the babies. The men can unload the luggage.” Linda added.

“You men heard that didn’t you? “ Levi asked as he stepped out and stretched, “Be sure and get everything, me and Boy are gonna take a walk and stretch our legs.”

“You can do that after you get all of our things unloaded.” Mary told him.

“I thought that’s why Steve and Larry came along – to do the heavy lifting.” He joked.

“I don’t mind getting it Levi; you go ahead and walk your dog.” Steve offered.

“Don’t suck up to that old fart Steve. Make him get it his self.” Larry teased, heaving bags from the rear.

“You hush! Let that boy suck up if he wants to.”

“Hey, speak of sucking–”

“Don’t say it!” Linda yelled from the doorway, “Don’t you dare say it Steven!” The three men laughed as each one threw a tote over their shoulder and grabbed a suitcase on wheels and followed the women to the front door.

“Lawdy lawd, I’m glad y’all finally made it. Hallelujah. Now get on in here and make yo selves at home.” Tallulah said hugging each one as they entered. “Mercy me look at all them babies. They is some perty babies too, ever last one of `em. And they all look like their mama’s – not that you daddy’s is ugly- you was prob’ly perty when you was a baby.” The heavy woman chuckled slapping her hands against her thick thighs.

When Maggie started with the introductions the old nursemaid politely stopped her.  “I know who everyone is.” She smiled, pointing at each individual as she called them by name. “And you all just call me Tallulah.”

“Alright, Tallulah can you show us to our quarters? These young uns’ need some dry britches.” Steve said, attempting a more southern drawl. His effort went unnoticed.

The exterior had not changed much but the interior of the historic mansion bore only a slight resemblance to the stuffy manor that Maggie recalled. The looming portraits of the Lafont’s were gone along with the heavy drapery. Linda and her mother kept a mental finger on the former debutante’s cerebral pulse as the group ascended the staircase. The flickering images became more pronounced when they reached the landing across from the master suite.

“Why do you have a padlock on the door?” Maggie asked, wrestling with the memories, the taste of soap and blood in her mouth, her head bouncing off the door facing and then the marble sink, her pulverized reflection in the mirror. Linda felt her siblings anxiety and a strong desire to react until she heard her mother’s reprimanding.

Wait! Let Maggie deal with this. Tallulah looked to the crowd, her joyful face suddenly solemn and at a loss for words. Mary nodded to her and the hostess cleared her throat and announced,

“I keeps the ghosts in there. I know walls don’t mean nothin’ and neither do that lock – but it makes me feel better and lets `em know I mean business.” 

“I knew this was a bad idea.” Levi said, holding Adam’s head to his shoulder, “You boys load the van and we’ll drive on into town. There’s three rooms waiting for us at the-”

“No!” Maggie interrupted. “I’m staying. If you’re scared you can go ahead and leave but I’m not.”

“Are you sure Magpie?” her father asked, “Bad memories are one thing but ghosts… well I don’t know much about ghosts.”

animated-gifs-ghosts-01“They ain’t gonna come outta that room. I done told `em this is my house now and they works for me.” Tallulah said, planting her hands on her hips and rocking her head.

 

“I don’t believe in ghosts.” Larry interjected, “There is no evidence to support that theory.”

“Well good for you Mr. Larry. Yes indeed that’s good for you `cause ignorance truly is bliss in some cases.”

“I believe in ghosts.” Steve confessed.

“Then I guess I’m the only logical person here.” Larry sighed, “Show us to our rooms Tallulah and put an end to this madness before it turns into an argument and my daughter gets diaper rash.”

Maggie grinned and when the convoy started down the wide hallway, lagging behind she whispered toward the door, “I won worm dirt! Take that!” animated-gifs-ghosts-12

~~O~~

 

1st pick CLAN DESTINY BOOK JANNA HILL (632x1024)I’ve been told parts of this book are frightening by a few that claim not to believe in the supernatural. Well, I believe and you know what? I ain’t afraid of no ghost.

 

Roses from Ishmael (Friday’s Free-for-all)

Friday’s Free-for-all is a freaky little story I wrote a few thousand years ago. You can read along and/or listen to the narration by Robert Berliner.

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Roses from Ishmael

Ishmael thought the flowers would be a nice touch. Roses were her favorite, red roses to be exact. These were slightly black around the edges and void of fragrance, but they were roses nonetheless.

“You’re not old enough to remember when roses had a smell are you?” he asked the cashier as he handed her a twenty dollar bill.

“No sir, I guess not.” She replied handing him a rumpled one along with thirteen cents in change.

“I bet you’re not even old enough to buy beer.” He said tucking the flowers under his arm. The young woman gave a weary smirk and he shoved the change into his coat pocket. “I guess it doesn’t matter as long as you’re old enough to sell it.” Ishmael yanked the eighteen pack of Bud Light from the counter and strolled to his truck.

Just outside of the city limits he reached across the seat and twisted the first cap off of a tepid bottle. The clanking of the glass was comforting and the warm beer eased the queasiness in his stomach. He downshifted and let the black Chevy pull itself along the narrow country lane as he sipped the Bud and drank in the scenery. The summer heat had taken a toll on the coastal Bermuda that waved its browned tops as he drove past. Ishmael nodded and gestured back, feeling a kinship. But relief was on the way, the weatherman said as much when he interrupted the radio host to announce tornado warnings in effect until eight o’clock this evening.

As he pulled into the drive he sucked the last bit of suds from the third bottle, took a deep breath and sighed. Her car was parked in the usual place. He felt hopeful, nervously adjusting the flowers and dusting the fallen petals to the floorboard before popping a wintergreen disc into his mouth. The mint clung to his cheek like paste as he gagged, the stench of evergreen causing him to heave with panic. A mouth full of juniper berries was an unpleasant memory to say the least. His tongue darted and swept in search of spit and after several sweeps he managed to be rid of it. When the candy landed Ishmael kicked at the dusty drive covering it and his boot in a fine white powder.

“Honey I’m home.” He called from the kitchen. “Arianna? Sweetheart? Are you still here?” he spoke gently as he made is way toward the guest bedroom.

The squishing of his boots on wet carpet went unnoticed as did her silent cries. “You’re in there aren’t you?” He asked pressing his hand to door. “Speak to me, please?” Ishmael ran his fingers across the buckled paint and continued, “Ari- I’m sorry. You have to believe I never meant to hurt you. You believe me don’t you?” the man’s statement was honest but how could she believe him? He knew how she loved her perfect house; how hard she had worked to make the quaint space a home. He knew too that it was him she loved, only him but his jealousy blinded him to the fact. “I was only trying to make a point… a stupid point I know but I never struck the match Arianna. It was an accident. Can you forgive me?”

A sharp snap came from the other side of the door and his heart dropped. He made his way back to the kitchen and tossed the roses into Tuesday’s dishwater. How many Tuesdays had passed? Her silence set a new record. She had never shunned him so long and the guilt that urged him to buy the flowers – the same remorse he felt every time he lost his temper was quickly being replaced by irritation; an all too familiar annoyance building in the pit of his stomach. It would simmer there until it bubbled over and rumbled through his empty gut lapping against raw nerves, reviving memories of every rejection and hurt feeling he had ever known.

Ishmael felt the heat rise in his face and throb in his ears as he gripped the counter to steady his frame. Trembling he strained to recall what the therapist had taught him. It was not working. The only happy thoughts he owned were of her and they had been supplanted by unbearable memoirs, images of unforgiving eyes. Her eyes once bright and smiling now flamed and pierced him with accusations. The same eyes that gave him comfort now cut him to the bone. She had a way of doing that – shaming a man without a word and shame was a thing he hated.

He had been ashamed for as long as he could remember. Even as a small boy, before he had ever heard the word or perceived its definition – he felt it. He ate shame for breakfast and bathed in it before going to bed each night. He knelt on it as he said his prayers and iced his beer in it and sometimes he hid it in a bundle of flowers. Yes shame was his unfaltering companion, the one sure thing he could count on.

Jutting his face toward the heavens he prayed and waited for an answer.

Oblivious to the first drops that landed Ishmael continued to pray. As the rain drenched his upturned face, mingling with his tears he steadied his breath and waited for an answer, an absolution that refused to come. Instead the wind swirled in the open roof above him showering his blistered face with twigs and scorched bits of fiberglass, a foul reminder of things that could not be undone.

“Am I beyond forgiveness?” He pleaded toward the thundering sky. “Will you always be angry with me?”

Ishmael tried to stoop amongst the debris, to kneel if for no other reason than sheer exhaustion but the charred drywall held his fists. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!” he croaked, his throat too dry to scream

“Damn you Arianna!” He cursed through cracked lips, unable to summon any moisture, unable to summon anything. Not so much as a heave could he muster from the memory of juniper on an elementary playground. He would now welcome the kicks of a bully in canvas sneakers, the scratching of coarse pungent needles against his face and the bitterness of their berries.

Ishmael heard the machines approaching; he could hear the men talking just prior to the wall landing. They used words like ‘total loss’, ‘unsalvageable’ and ‘condemned’. Words he had come to terms with, things no amount of roses in the world could fix.

He laid his head against the sooty timber that permanently fixed him and asked once again, “Arianna? Ari-honey are you here?” and again she refused to answer.

From Once Upon a Dead Gull available in digital or audio

Once Upon a Dead Gull Cover (420x640)

Written by Janna Hill

Narrated by Robert Berliner

Wedding thoughts: All I know about love

I recently came across a poem [yes poem] by Neil Gaiman. Not only was I pleasantly surprised, I was deeply touched.

The piece struck a chord with me because (sniff. snort. sigh.) our baby boy is getting married this year. Yes, the one I reminisced about a few years ago… pondering,

Where did the years go… Why won’t he let me rock him to sleep any more…or comb his hair… or at least find him a wife so he doesn’t have to live alone…

As a mother there are so many things I want to tell him… to prepare him… and then I realize I cannot. In  Wedding thoughts: All I know about love Neil says it so well I just had to share it with y’all.

 

May your smiles forever sparkle in the prisms of your stone.

Wedding thoughts: All I know about love

Neil Gaiman poetry

This is everything I have to tell you about love: nothing.

This is everything I’ve learned about marriage: nothing.

 

Only that the world out there is complicated,

and there are beasts in the night, and delight and pain,

and the only thing that makes it okay, sometimes,

is to reach out a hand in the darkness and find another hand to squeeze,

and not to be alone.

 

It’s not the kisses, or never just the kisses: it’s what they mean.

Somebody’s got your back.

Somebody knows your worst self and somehow doesn’t want to rescue you

or send for the army to rescue them.

 

It’s not two broken halves becoming one.

It’s the light from a distant lighthouse bringing you both safely home

because home is wherever you are both together.

 

So this is everything I have to tell you about love and marriage: nothing,

like a book without pages or a forest without trees.

 

Because there are things you cannot know before you experience them.

Because no study can prepare you for the joys or the trials.

Because nobody else’s love, nobody else’s marriage, is like yours,

and it’s a road you can only learn by walking it,

a dance you cannot be taught,

a song that did not exist before you began, together, to sing.

 

And because in the darkness you will reach out a hand,

not knowing for certain if someone else is even there.

And your hands will meet,

and then neither of you will ever need to be alone again.

And that’s all I know about love.

I’m Baaack (As the World Turns)

I’m baaack and damn glad too.

I say that with a smile.

The adventure was certainly enjoyable. It was entertaining and enlightening…  and what’s another word that starts with e? 

Equilibrium.

Yeah! Well, that’s all screwed up. Can you say Mal de debarquement syndrome ? MDDS is a type of vertigo that [rarely] occurs after stepping off a cruise ship

Whew! It is hard to type while hanging onto (or on to) the arm of a chair — it feels like a fun-house up in here!

So as the world turns I have summed up my trip with a poem and pictures.

I love water…

 

and sunsets…

and leisurely trips.

And I love being on land

0 it is good to be home (673x1024)

 more than  living on ships.

Let the Good Times Roll

Remember the Summer Blowout sale we did in August?

I can’t believe how much my hair has grown and changed since then. (I’ll share pics when we get back from vacay.) Nor can I believe ‘somebody’ failed to inform Google of an end date for the sale so guess what?

Yep! All of the titles are still at crazy low prices. How low, you ask? So low it’s a good thing the awesome daughter is picking up the tab for the cruise.

Oh well, let the good times roll and Happy Fall Y’all.

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Fall in love with reading Happy Fall Y'all.jpg