Going into Battle with ...

I have two of nephews living with me (who I refer to as my boys). One is Cory AKA SMC (snickering male child),, and the other is Patrick, my army veteran. The other day I was minding my on business in my studio when I heard a high pitched scream of terror and a crash coming from the Dark Zone (the other end of the house where they reside.). Normally I would not venture into the Dark Zone except to talk briefly with them or to get them up and only if I take a big stick with me in case something reaches out of the darkness to grab me. However, concern for Patrick (as Cory was out of town at the time) sent me sprinting into the blackness. Flinging open his door expecting God only knows what that would make an ex soldier scream like a little girl I saw something that shocked me.

Patrick was backed against the wall, shit kicker boots on, hands encased in heavy work gloves, a rolled up magazine in one hand and a blow torch in the other, wild eyed and breathing hard.

Okay, wth?

"It's in here! I'm going to kill that f*****. It's out to get me!"

Apparently, this crawled out of his closest...



Did I mention that Patrick is terrified of spiders?

"Okay, Patrick. Please, don't burn the house down." I calmly closed the door and retreated from the Dark Zone, before the eight legged freak came looking for me. I hate them, too.

The Ghost Cat

BANG

Stacy groaned and flipped over to bury her head against Jim’s back.

BANG!

Jim grunted and pulled his pillow over his head.

BANG!

“Stacy, do something about that cat!” Jim’s muffled voice came. “I can’t sleep.”

Stacy laid there, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. Another bang of the door came. She turned over and sat up. She could see a small white paw under the door where it didn’t quite meet the floor. She could also see the glean of a green eye staring at her next to the paw. She got up to open the door and glare down at her tortoiseshell cat, Munchie. Glancing at the clock Stacy saw that it was 3:23 am.

“Can’t you wait for morning?”

Munchie turned and ran down the stairs to the kitchen door, her miffed owner behind her. Once the door was opened she sashayed over to her bowl to sit with a queenly dignity for her very early breakfast.

After ten minutes of dainty eating and a quick wash she led Stacy to the back door. Stacy opened the door and stared out at the heavy fog that obscured the night. Munchie started out, then sat down just inside the door, looking out.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You are not waking me up again to let you out.” Stacy put her foot under the cat’s rump and shoved her out the door. Munchie turned to hiss at her then raced across the deck into the fog. Stacy turned to make her way back to bed. As she got settled back against her husband’s back she heard a jingle coming from downstairs. She raised her head. There, she heard it again.

“What the…?”

“What is it?” Jim asked.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That jingling noise. It sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.”

He listened.

“Sounds like the bell on the cat’s collar. Big deal.”

“I put Munchie out.” Stacy got up to investigate the sound.

Back downstairs Stacy opened the kitchen door and flipped on the overhead light. There, in her bed next to the iron stove, laid Munchie. She opened one sleepy eye to glare at her in annoyance.

“If Munchie is in here,” Stacy moved to the door. “what did I kick out the door?”

Then it dawned on her. The whole previous episode was silent. Not once did the cat meow, purr, or make a sound with her collar bell

A Spooky Story

BANG

Stacy groaned and flipped over to bury her head against Jim’s back.

BANG!

Jim grunted and pulled his pillow over his head.

BANG!

“Stacy, do something about that cat!” Jim’s muffled voice came. “I can’t sleep.”

Stacy laid there, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. Another bang of the door came. She turned over and sat up. She could see a small white paw under the door where it didn’t quite meet the floor. She could also see the glean of a green eye staring at her next to the paw. She got up to open the door and glare down at her tortoiseshell cat, Munchie. Glancing at the clock Stacy saw that it was 3:23 am.

“Can’t you wait for morning?”

Munchie turned and ran down the stairs to the kitchen door, her miffed owner behind her. Once the door was opened she sashayed over to her bowl to sit with a queenly dignity for her very early breakfast.

After ten minutes of dainty eating and a quick wash she led Stacy to the back door. Stacy opened the door and stared out at the heavy fog that obscured the night. Munchie started out, then sat down just inside the door, looking out.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You are not waking me up again to let you out.” Stacy put her foot under the cat’s rump and shoved her out the door. Munchie turned to hiss at her then raced across the deck into the fog. Stacy turned to make her way back to bed. As she got settled back against her husband’s back she heard a jingle coming from downstairs. She raised her head. There, she heard it again.

“What the…?”

“What is it?” Jim asked.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That jingling noise. It sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.”

He listened.

“Sounds like the bell on the cat’s collar. Big deal.”

“I put Munchie out.” Stacy got up to investigate the sound.

Back downstairs Stacy opened the kitchen door and flipped on the overhead light. There, in her bed next to the iron stove, laid Munchie. She opened one sleepy eye to glare at her in annoyance.

“If Munchie is in here,” Stacy moved to the door. “what did I kick out the door?”

Then it dawned on her. The whole previous episode was silent. Not once did the cat meow, purr, or make a sound with her collar bell.
　
　
　
　

A Short-Story, The Honeysuckle Incident

I shut off the vac. In the absence of it's industious roar I could hear the squeals of little boy delight and the screams of abject terror. Sighing deeply I left off the never ending housework when there are childern around.
I went out onto the porch, stepping over my black chow Pudgin (don't ask), and looked up just in time to see one of my nephews, Patrick, careen around the corner of the house, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Behind him in hot pursuit came his four year old baby brother, Dalton, giggling that evil laugh that you only hear in a Stephen King movie. He had something in his hand raised up as if to throw it at his fleeing brother.Pat rushed up the steps and hid behind me.
"What is going on out here?"
"Dalton's trying to kill me!" Pat wailed. "He's throwing honeysuckles on me."
I looked at the white blond-haired, big blue eyed mini demon in front of me and saw that in his hand he indeed held a tiny honeysuckle blossem. The wooded area behind my house was covered in them.
Normally the throwing of honeysuckle blossems would not matter, but recently we found out that Pat was allergic to the nectur inside. He had sucked it out along with his brothers last summer and blew up like he had been bee stung. Which resulted in a trip to ER, many doctor visits, and shots. Understandably he was very paranoid about honeysuckles.
"Dalton, why are you chasing your brother with that?"
"Fun!"
I shuddered. I swear Dalt sounded just like that kid off of Pet Semetery.
"Dalton, sweetie, I want you to find something else to entertain yourself besides terrorizing your brother."
"No!"
Why is it that that is the first word every child learns first?
"Do it or you will come inside for a nap."
He started to cry.
"Don't want nap." He stomped his little dirty feet. "You're mean. Going tell my mommy."
"Yeah, right. I'm shaking in my flip-flops."
He stomped his foot again, threw down the blossem as if to make a dent in my porch, and ran off toward the swingset, Pudgin right behind him.
"What if he does it again?" Pat said, sniffling.
I looked at the red-headed eight year old. Time to nip this paranoria in the bud, pun intended.
"Patrick, did Dalton force you down and stick the honeysuckle in your mouth"?
"No."
"Did the honeysuckle spit evil sweet-smelling goo at you?"
"No..."
"Did the blossem sink little teeth into your skin to suck out your blood?"
He just stared at me.
"Then I don't think you'll fall over dead if a honeysuckle should hit your skin. Now, go play-quietly-while I finish the housework."
He shuffled off the porch and headed in the other direction from Dalt. Somehow, though, I knew was not the end of this. I fully expected to be back out here breaking up another fight within the hour.
As I turned to go back inside my eyes landed on their older brother, Cory.
"Why didn't you stop this?"
He shugged.
"I knew it wouldn't hurt him and it was fun to watch."
I let out an aspirated sigh and headed back in with a slam of the screen door.
And it was only alittle after ten am.

New Story?

It's was dinnertime and a storm was rolling in. Ugly, dark clouds were slowly getting closer, rising over the top of the mini mall, a looming beast threatening to break. The humidity was unbearable and I didn't really think the storm would cool it off any. Proberly make the heat and humidity worse. That's a southern summer afternoon for you.
I was sitting in my car, all the windows down, hoping for a breeze, in the parking lot of the mall. I could faintly smell the honeysuckles climbing the hill behind me over the smells of gas fumes, hot asphalt, chinese food and burgers from the restraughts on the strip. The noise from the main street was a loud rumble over powering my radio which was blasting out some screaming heavy metal lyrics. Pulling my shirt away from my neck I watched a young black woman leave Krogers, buggy full of plastic bags and little children, while two more older kids pulled at her shirt. She looked harried. Poor girl. She reached a battered Nissan and, with much pulling, chasing, and yelling, finally got the bags and kids in. I glanced at the entrance as she pulled out.
Where the hell was he anyway? I was getting tired of waiting. I began to fan myself with the manila envelope that arrived in the mail that morning. The envelope with no return address.
A large drop of water landed on my windshield. Then the storm hit with all its fury.

On Being A Writer (and, oh, don't we all dream of being writers)

It started when I was a teen. I wanted to be a writer. I dreamed of it, the signings, the fans breathlessly awaiting my next book, the fame and fortune. Yet here I am, still wanting to be a writer. I have the characters, titles, and quite a bit of the writing done. But still no book. I find it hard to come up with a whole 80,000-100,000 words novels. I just can't come up with that much material. And forget short stories. When I start writing, I can get pass the word limit for a story and keep going. So what's a girl to do?

I was thinking about just finishing the books as novallas, and use createspace.com to publish them on my own, then sell them on my own website, myspace, blogspot, etc. I could advertise them as quickie reads. I like quickies myself, something to read at one sitting. If I publish one every four months that'll be three a year, or four a year if I publish every three months. I'd love to use the same characters in the books to support the background of the hero/heroine of the story.

If anyone reads this post and has any ideas, thoughts, or just general comments, please feel free to post them. I would love to hear from all of you.

I just finished this book. It was great. Another well told story by Webber filled with lots of giggles and many quirky characters. I loved it and recommend it.

A Word Picture

A hot wind moves across my skin, sweat trickles down my face and back,
dry grass crunches beneath my feet, a bee buzzes by.
Under the trees of my backyard woods, in the dark shade
yellow eyes watch me warily from a darker shadow
and blue eyes look up at me pleadingly from a little gray and tan face,
softly meowing for a pet. All around me my flowers droop, thirsty and dying roses, honeysuckles, and tigerlillies.
Is that thunder I faintly hear? Is that a dark cloud on the horizan?
Is rain finally coming? Please, God, say it is.

The Honeysuckle Incident

I shut off the vac. In the absence of it's industious roar I could hear the squeals of little boy delight and the screams of abject terror. Sighing deeply I left off the never ending housework when there are childern around. I went out onto the porch, stepping over my black chow Pudgin (don't ask), and looked up just in time to see one of my nephews, Patrick, careen around the corner of the house, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Behind him in hot pursuit came his four year old baby brother, Dalton, giggling that evil laugh that you only hear in a Stephen King movie. He had something in his hand raised up as if to throw it at his fleeing brother.
Pat rushed up the steps and hid behind me.
"What is going on out here?"
"Dalton's trying to kill me!" Pat wailed. "He's throwing honeysuckles on me."
I looked at the white blond-haired, big blue eyed mini demon in front of me and saw that in his hand he indeed held a tiny honeysuckle blossem. The wooded area behind my house was covered in them.
Normally the throwing of honeysuckle blossems would not matter, but recently we found out that Pat was allergic to the nectur inside. He had sucked it out along with his brothers last summer and blew up like he had been bee stung. Which resulted in a trip to ER, many doctor visits, and shots. Understandably he was very paranoid about honeysuckles.
"Dalton, why are you chasing your brother with that?"
"Fun!"
I shuddered. I swear Dalt sounded just like that kid off of Pet Semetery.
"Dalton, sweetie, I want you to find something else to entertain yourself besides terrorizing your brother."
"No!"
Why is it that that is the first word every child learns first?
"Do it or you will come inside for a nap."
He started to cry.
"Don't want nap." He stomped his little dirty feet. "You're mean. Going tell my mommy."
"Yeah, right. I'm shaking in my flip-flops."
He stomped his foot again, threw down the blossem as if to make a dent in my porch, and ran off toward the swingset, Pudgin right behind him.
"What if he does it again?" Pat said, sniffling.
I looked at the red-headed eight year old. Time to nip this paranoria in the bud, pun intended.
"Patrick, did Dalton force you down and stick the honeysuckle in your mouth"?
"No."
"Did the honeysuckle spit evil sweet-smelling goo at you?"
"No..."
"Did the blossem sink little teeth into your skin to suck out your blood?"
He just stared at me.
"Then I don't think you'll fall over dead if a honeysuckle should hit your skin. Now, go play-quietly-while I finish the housework."
He shuffled off the porch and headed in the other direction from Dalt. Somehow, though, I knew was not the end of this. I fully expected to be back out here breaking up another fight within the hour.
As I turned to go back inside my eyes landed on their older brother, Cory.
"Why didn't you stop this?"
He shugged.
"I knew it wouldn't hurt him and it was fun to watch."
I let out an aspirated sigh and headed back in with a slam of the screen door.
And it was only alittle after ten am.