On Writing…A Rambling Discourse

Part of the process of getting back into writing is looking backwards into your own words. Not just the ideas and thoughts you’ve been fomenting, but the things you’ve already written. The way you wrote them. The things that made you happy. The things that made you cringe. The things where you saw you went wrong and could could use a goddamn editor.

I’ve been poking, somewhat lazily tbh, at  a story idea I came up with damn near a year ago. To my mind, it’s a *great* idea. It has a lot of potential, insofar as Jungian ideology and table-top mechanics are good.

All that being said…Here is a bit of Tray just asking for it.

Tray stretched, letting his arms fall loose to the ground. Being upside down wasn’t so bad. He looked up at his feet and then beyond to the small circle of the night sky afforded by the treeline. The moon was gorgeous and full. Night birds called and were answered. He smiled.
A heavy pulse began to beat in in his throat. He began to murmur the appropriate  words.


A Ghost Story of a Different Sort

Writing for pleasure? plot? other things? What, what?

What’s troubling me now is source material.
Oh, wait.

There is too much.

Angelo ducked his head. He didn’t like it when the guards looked too sharp at him. He had been in charge of some of the pequeños. Angelo had done his best, he felt, But, it was never enough. He could feel the guards’ indifference but also? he could feel their potential for violence. He wanted to make sure  the criaturas  were OK.  He slipped a little, moving silently to the next bebé.  Angelo pressed a kiss to the child’s head, glancing sharply at an approaching guard as he did. The guard yawned, looked the other way, and moved down the next row.
Angelo sighed and pressed a kiss to the small brow of  a nearby child. Another averted. Father, he sighed, there are too many.


in media dolor



Camelia glanced out the window again. Yep. It was still there. She tucked her head back down, pretending to stretch out her neck. Why in the hell did the bus have to break down at this particular corner? It had no less than three of those stupid memorials – crosses, plastic flowers, and teddy bears in profusion – arranged on it. One of them had been nailed to a battered telephone pole, the now-gray gouges in the creosote and wood marking where something awful had happened. Cam felt her eyes being drawn back towards the thing. She supposed it was a morbid curiosity. They were so…well, horrible. Spindly arms and fluttering gray flesh all over-topped with scorch mark eyes. WAS it a ghost? Or just the bad feelings about someone’s death, nailed into place with memorabilia? She didn’t actually know, but those things gave her a bad, bad feeling. No one else could see them, as far as she could tell. Under her feet, the vibration of the engine changed slightly. Yay! They were going to get back on the road soon. The rumble ratcheted up another notch and Camelia decided to look at the thing one more time. She turned her head and recoiled in shock. Its face was pressed up against the window, empty sockets with wriggling black holes locked onto her face.



So, I know this story has some (OK, lots) of issues. But this idea has been bouncing around my noggin for a long time. I wanted to set it down, see what it looked like in words outside my head.
I still like the idea – ghosts nailed into place by loved one’s pain & suffering, marked and held by the little memorial crosses you see everywhere.
I think I am going to play with this idea some more. It may be that it is just too much for a flash or micro fiction piece.