Hey Ho Let’s Go

Melpomene ~ Muse of Tragedy

Melpomene  is the Greek Muse of dramatic tragedy.

I think it’s great, if you write about tragedy- like I do ( horror and the supernatural are heavy on the tragedy theme)-then you are inspired by a woman who walks around with a human face ( sure it’s a mask…sure it is)  or a sword in her hand.

I have been known to walk around with a hockey stick when there is no ice or hockey puck within miles of where I’m standing and on more than one occasion I have been known to rip people’s faces off so I feel a bit of a bond with Melpomene

In addition, I do like the idea of a face waving, sword swinging creature walking through my head and throwing the lights on when I can’t quite do it myself.

I figure that with one look at her any little dark creatures that are roaming around my brain and killing off my stories will be running for cover or better yet a new home where we won’t even be sharing a zip code.

I’m also inspired by Mozart. I do some of my best work when I’m listening to Mozart. I can’t decide though- was he also inspired by Melpomene ? Is that why I write better with Mozart in my ear?

Maybe.

All I know is, they make a great team.

Just A Thought

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I love horror stories.

And in the universe of Horror, if you take lives or betray your fellow human the Devil is supposed to grant you something like power or wealth or immortality.

There’s going to be Hell to pay soon and I’m wondering what that’s going to look like.

 

And One Day I Went There

wpid-fb_img_1445867653747.jpgTextures are everywhere: The rough edges of a stone wall. The smooth innocence of a baby’s cheek. The sense of touch brings back memories for us. What texture is particularly evocative to you?

I can’t remember where I heard it or when but I’m guessing it was from my friend Clyde  who knew about all things Dinosaur Related.

Clyde  was seriously into Dinosaurs- we were about ten years old at the time- and I was into Archeology and all things Mummy Related so we always had a lot to talk about.

Anyway one day we were slamming the tether ball around the pole and trying to hit each other with it ( I think it was called roping when you grabbed the rope and whipped it around ) and Clyde  informed me that the way you could tell the difference between a rock and a bone was that if you put a bone on your tongue it would stick because bones are porous and if it was a rock it wouldn’t,

I bounced the ball off his head. ” Really?”

He assured me it was true.

” You just want me dig up a bone and lick it?”

It was one way to be sure, Clyde  told me. Besides, it was the only way he knew.

I bounced the ball off of his head again. ” Good try short stack. I’m not falling for that one.”

Clyde changed when we were in high school.

We would be talking and his eyes would roll up into head and he’d start talking to God- sometimes the Devil and when he came back he would hold my hand and tell me it was getting harder to hear hear his own thoughts anymore.

One day, Clyde  was just gone- I mean the person who I grew up with. His body was there but he would talk in random words and numbers.

His family moved him to an institution in the same state his Uncle lived in. Clyde  and his Uncle had always been close and he wanted to care for him.

I went a few times to visit but Clyde  didn’t know me, didn’t know himself.

After the last trip I took I went home to my Mom’s because my dog had died ( thanks for the kick in the head God ) and I was in the backyard gathering up his toys when I came across one of Sham’s chewed up ham bones.

I thought about what Clyde  had said.

I held the bone up and shrugged.

I went to the hose, washed it off, wiped it on my jeans and set the bone on my tongue.

I’ll be darned- it did stick to my tongue.

It tasted like earth, like sadness. I chomped it a bit and wondered what it would be like to snap it in half with my jaws, what it would feel like to crunch at the shards, to spit out the remains and keep working at it until nothing was left.

My friend was gone, my dog was gone too and I was in my back yard chewing on a bone and you know what?

At the exact moment I needed it I felt very much alive.

My friend  who I called ” Clyde”   in this post died in 2001.

You Know What? F$#@ You

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So as near as I can figure it, instead of saying ” Keep those Syrians  out of the States” because you know- ain’t nobody home but us good ol’ God fearing folk- we’re certainly not racists.

Uh-Uh not us.

The way it works now is that all of a sudden the flag snappers are all on a screed about not helping Refugees until we help our HOMELESS Vets.

Oh since fucking WHEN has this country as a body cared about the Homeless let alone its Homeless Vets.

I have lots of friends who advocate for the Homeless and nobody is kicking down their door asking how they can help,

Until the Syrians started to RUN FOR THEIR LIVES I haven’t heard anyone put the  question about our Homeless and how it’s SUCH a high priority that we help them,

I work in Pioneer Square in Seattle, I see homeless Vets among the rest of the men at the Mission every morning and I have not seen ONE of you sons of bitches who are all of a sudden slamming things on social media about OUR HOMELESS VETS doing a damn thing when:

I carried a drunk guy semi-conscious out of the middle of the street ALONE because cars and buses were inching their way around him and I was terrified he’d get hit.

When I got him to the sidewalk and tried to get him to agree to let me get him a first aid car, I could see him struggling to talk.  I told him to take his time. He said something that I will never forget. ” This isn’t me Ma’am. This isn’t ME.” He said and I looked straight into his ruined eyes, past the sick on his face and said ” I know. “

I know there are Vets among the guys sleeping on the sidewalk and by the way, I don’t see the milk of human kindness or concern flowing from the people who step over these guys but I do hear a lot of ideas about how to run them out of town once and for all.

So screw you and your fake concern.

Don’t tell me you’re sticking up for our Vets- let alone the homeless ones.

You hate Syrians and Refugees more than you care about YOUR OWN.

The Homeless Vets have already served our Country.

Don’t you dare  serve your racist rants on their backs.

 

 

Miss Redmark Has Your Number

Your Days are Numbered

What’s the date today? Write it down, remove all dashes and slashes, and write a post that mentions that number.

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The attic Miss Redmark  called home was large and during the day it was flooded with sunlight, at night  it was bathed in moonlight and when it was foggy the room filled with mist.  The light green painted walls were fading and chipped the wooden floors are warped and dusty.

Most days Miss Redmark would go to one of the windowless rooms up in her attic and sit or stand and it seemed as if she hardly drew a breath. Dust from the plaster ceiling would fall as gentle as snow and land in her open eyes and cling to her dark hair and black dress.

She hardly moved at all but I think she dreamed because sometime she would smile.

One  day Redmark heard a noise and drifted  to the head of the staircase. She looked down  the unlit stairs  to the unlit room below and for the first time in years she hear the locks turn, the door to her house  to swung open and someone called for her to come down.

She took each step slowly, cautiously and when she got to the bottom of the stairs she stood with her hands clasped in front of her.

She went to the open door step outside and looked up.

She  moved her head from left to right, listening.

Then she walked down to the dead lawn,  kneeled down and placed her hands on the ground.

“11,915” she whispered to the Earth.

She raised her chin up and said the numbers into the wind and the wind carried them away.

” 11,915  right now ?” the Earth asked her.

” Yes. Now. Right now.”

W/W  NEWS RELEASE

Today it was reported that the deaths in a


virus that was believed to have been wiped out over 60 years ago has killed 11,915 people alone today in the following States…authorities are desperately trying to find the source of the deadly virus once nicknamed The Redmark …

Break Time

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Sometimes we take chances, we do something new, outside the box.

This year I did that.

I skipped Halloween, I didn’t write a word I didn’t plunge a knife into a pumpkin, though I did go to a cemetery which was abandoned and neglected and forgotten.

But that’s another story.

So what did I do?

I thought, very, very hard about my writing and how I wouldn’t treat anyone or anything the way I treat it.

I treat my writing like a toy. I play with it, get bored with it and it ends up forgotten and neglected under the couch until for some reason the couch gets moved and there it is.

So I look at my poor beat up toy and I feel guilty so I can’t face what I’ve done and I won’t touch it. I can’t even look at it.

A few  times during October I even pulled out my lap top and fired it up but I didn’t even go to my blogs.

I just couldn’t.

Sometimes I can hear the music and sometimes I can’t. But that’s not an excuse for my lack of self discipline.

However, I think this time I learned something- that I don’t take care of myself or my dreams or grow my talent.

I did that for my husband, my sons my friends – I would support them to no end in what calls to them.

But I haven’t done that for myself.

I’m thinking that by going outside the box- this time I learned something.

At least I hope so.