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the years

Being an optimist (except when my paranoid paradoxic pessimistic side kicks in), I am starting this year determined to accomplish great things.  That is generally how I start any year, by hoping it will be the year.  Not the year to end all years.  Or even the best year ever.  It's nice to leave something to look forward to.  Perhaps merely the beginning of a golden era of happiness and good fortune.

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yuleogy

What, it's December already?  Wasn't it just Halloween?  Oh yes, every day is Halloween in my head.  I think I do recall something about Thanksgiving whizzing by, now that I mention it.  Still, it can't be Christmas!  I haven't done any of the usual things, those traditional trappings that accompany the season.  Haven't decorated a tree (wait, there is the small wire one on a shelf above my desk — just a minute — okay, scratch that off the list).  Haven't been hearing carols (well, there might've been a few snippets in T.V.

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tanks

I meant to write about "thanks".  And the opposite.  How ungrateful we humans have been to Mother Earth.  How uncivilized civilizations have been toward other civilizations.  How backwards our advancements have taken us in many ways.  But how, nonetheless, we need to take the time — whatever our gripes and grievances — to appreciate this world and those around us.  Also those much like us around the world.  By that I mean, well, pretty much everyone.  We're all people, people!

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gothic

Oh yes, I am treading there.  Creeping down the woebegone highways and byways of gothic-style horror this Halloween.  What could be more appropriate, methinks, than to honor that dark and dismal genre with some chicken-scratches of my own?  It isn't all black lipstick and fingernails, you know.  Its origins were far more refined and exquisitely wrought by masterful scribes such as Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, Bram Stoker, Henry James, Robert Browning, Thomas Hardy . . .  I love the grim beauty of "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes.

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Horrendus


"'TWAS THE EVENTIDE
of an autumn day, the merchants closing shop, families gathered to sup ere shuttering eyelids for the night. Hens began a ruckus, clamoring as if some demon were amongst them. And, indeed, one was."

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the root of all fear

Fear is a dreadful topic.  Even for an author who occasionally dips her pen in the inky genre pool of Horror and Suspense.  And yet it seems almost kismet that I should delve headfirst into the theme like a high-diver plummeting to a barrel of bubble bath, make that bubble-gum bath, for it is a gooey matter most personal.

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