My thoughts.

I was reading a post today from someone who was asking if others sometimes felt like things were pointless. Not depressingly so, just a “what’s the point?” sort of feeling. I wrote back the following:

I totally understand your feeling. Sometimes, I think we all feel that way. But I know for sure I do. I am an atheist and sometimes, when times are tough, I feel like what is the point of it all. I don’t believe there is a ‘higher being’ or that there is a purpose to existence. I consider it all a happy accident. But, then I wonder if awareness was the worst thing evolution gave humans. We could have just been blissfully ignorant, like the rest of the creatures on Earth. Instead, we sit and wonder why.

Then I think more and turn it around. A quote I heard once helped. “You are the universe experiencing itself.” I don’t take this as the universe being “aware”, but I do like the idea that, if it weren’t for us, this would all go on unnoticed, so to speak. So, we get to use our eyes and experience to look around and marvel at the wonders, lament the sadness and just experience life. We will be gone one day, but we have to hope, in some small, almost infinitesimal way, we made things a little better for others. Or we some how document what we see and feel, through writing or art or something.

At worst, it just means we were briefly here, enjoying the wonder of that happy accident. At best, we make it better for those yet to open their eyes.

My thoughts.

F13:TS 25 - The Inheritance

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Episode Recap #1: The Inheritance

Original Airdate: October 3, 1987

Starring:

John D. LeMay as Ryan Dallion

Louise Robey as Micki Foster

Chris Wiggins as Jack Marshak

Guest cast:

R.G. Armstrong as Lewis Vendredi

Sarah Polley as Mary Simms

Kynne Cormack as Mrs. Irene Simms

Michael Fletcher as Mr. Simms

Esther Hockin as the Babysitter

Written by Bill Taub

Directed by William Fruet

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The show opens on a rainy night, a small family, the Simms,  huddled under an umbrella outside a shop called "Vendredi Antiques". The family enters the store, seeking shelter from the storm. The owner, Lewis Vendredi - a crusty, agitated old man - tells them to leave, but they persuade him to let them wait out the rain.

The little girl, Mary, starts touching things and gets scolded by her step-mother. The old man heads upstairs, the couple move off to look at antiques and Mary spies an old porcelain doll. Grabbing the doll, Mary heads outside into the rain. The doll speaks to Mary, telling the girl her name is Vita. A couple of guys in the alley approach, concerned about the little girl. Vita lashes out at them, cutting the throat of one of them.

Mary rushes back into the store. Her parents again scold her and Lewis grabs the doll away, shooing the family out of his store. He then grabs a bunch of antiques while grumbling that he "won't do your bidding no more". In the basement, he opens a vault and stows the items inside. Meanwhile, the windows of the shop have blown open and chaos ensues.

On the basement stairs, Lewis watches as cloven hoofprints are burned into each step. Laughter fills the air from someone - something - unseen. The vault bursts open and the ghost-like spirits of the antiques fly about, tormenting the old man. Suddenly, a crucifix appears floating before him. "Merciful God." Lewis says, and reaches out and grabs the cross. It burns his palm, scarring the flesh. 

Lewis backs into the freight elevator and the door slams shut behind him. A satanic symbol is burned into the floor and Lewis struggles to escape. But the floor vanishes and the old man drops down, falling into the depths of Hell.

Sometime later, we see a young, Yuppie couple arguing about her trip to deal with her inheritance from an Uncle Lewis she has never met. The young woman, red-headed beauty Micki Foster quells the annoyance of her fiance, a lawyer who thinks they should sue the cousin she hasn't met but with whom she now shares this antique shop.

Once Micki arrives at the store, we see it is now closed, items covered by sheets. The place is even gloomier than before, if possible. As she looks about, she is startled when a man in a strange mask jumps up from behind the counter. Micki smashes a vase on his head.

The young man turns out to be her cousin, Ryan Dallion, who was expecting his cousin to be a man.  The two get off to a rocky start. Micki is creeped out by the shop and its inventory, while Ryan thinks everything is fascinating and cool.

In the garage, they find that their uncle has also left them an old car. Briefly, the two enjoy a moment of fancy, Ryan acting as a limo driver for the lady. A black cat jumps into the car and scares Micki, who runs out and off to the basement, determined to get to work appraising and selling off the store. Ryan wants to explore and finds a way to open the vault.

Ryan props open the door and they proceed inside. Micki feels like something isn't right about this place. A noise causes Ryan to go investigate and Micki is locked in the vault. She looks about and sees the doll, Vita, sit up and turn toward her, seemingly alive. Stumbling about, Micki is nearly killed by a falling scythe. Ryan finds the secret brick to open the doors and Micki rushes out and up the stairs.

Back in the shop, she trips and grabs a spindle for support, the wood turns in her hand and a secret grate on the celiing opens, a thick old book dropping out. Micki and Ryan continue to disagree about what they want to do with the store. Ryan pleads his case for reopening the place and running it themselves.

We then cut to a going-out-of-business sale. Ryan has apparently come around to Micki's way of thinking. People mill about the shop, including Mr. Simms. He is back to find the doll he knew his daughter loved. Ryan finds it, but Micki doesn't want to sell it, remembering the way the doll moved in the vault. Ryan says no go, she wanted to sell it all, that includes the doll. Vita is purchased by Mary's father.

Late that night, as the cousins gather more antiques to sell, they hear a noise in the shop. Someone is prowling about. A man pulls a sword on the duo, introducing himself as Jack Marshak, a supplier of antiques to the shop. He has come to collect money from Lewis. They tell the intruder that Lewis was their uncle and he is dead. Jack is shocked.

In the kitchen, he tells them about the uncle they never knew and how he taught Lewis about the supernatural world. He explains that Lewis wanted to avoid death and be rich and that obsession drove the man to delve into the dark, demonic side of the other world. He recalls that Lewis had a plan to make a pact with Satan for immortality and immense wealth. But since Lewis is dead, Jack assumes the plan must not have worked. The cousins tell him about the book they found, which Jack says is Lewis' manifest for all the antiques he sold.

Our heroic trio sit down for their very first chat. 

Jack recalls another secret compartment, this one filled with news articles about suspicious deaths people have suffered with various arcane objects. They are able to match these objects to ones sold and listed in the manifest. Ryan and Jack realize Lewis did make his pact with Satan, cursing the items he sold and released into the world, while Micki is less impressed. Jack says Lewis must have tried to break the pact, but Satan took his life, instead. When Micki remembers the doll in the vault, she begins to wonder if the curse is real.

We then see Mary receiving the gift of the doll from her father. She is thrilled to have Vita back, but her dad asks her not to mention it to her step-mother. Vita tells Mary that, together, they can do anything they want.

The Simms argue about him giving the girl the doll. The step-mother doesn't think Mary deserves it and is determined to get it away from her.

Micki and Ryan search for the receipt for Vita and find the Simms' address. They decide to head out to retrieve the doll, while Jack says he is going to consult a friend of his, a medium, about the curse on Lewis' antiques. He also tells them that they could just forget about it all and go back to their lives, but Micki speaks for them all when she says they have to get the doll back before thinking about resuming their lives.

Mary and Vita are having a tea party, with the doll slowly pushing Mary into dark thoughts about her step-mother. Mary is reluctant at first, but is easly swayed by the manipulative doll. Her step-mother arrives and lectures the girl, taking Vita away from her until the girl can learn to behave. She hides the doll, but Mary secretly watches.

Micki and Ryan are searching a map to find the Simms' home. Ryan asks if Micki is sure she knows what she is doing. She says no. He responds, "At least we have one thing in common."

Mary retrives Vita but is caught by her step-mother. Vita looks at Mary and then psychically moves a roller skate to the top of the stares. The stare from Vita causes Mrs. Simms to back up and then Vita hisses at her, causing the woman to tumble back and fall down the staircase.

As Mrs. Simms is being put into the ambulance, Micki and Ryan finally arrive. A neighbor tells them what happened and they see Mary with Vita. They approach and are startled when Mary snaps at them and Vita hisses. The girl and doll are loaded into the ambulance by her father, and the Simms head off to the hospital.

Mr. Simms tells his wife she is in the hospital and goes off to find a doctor, leaving the woman alone with Mary and Vita. The girl brings the doll up to her step-mother's bed, lifting her over the woman. Vita attacks, scaring Mrs. Simms to death. Mary's father comes back in and finds his wife dead, but is unaware of Mary's role.

Micki and Ryan approach some nurses, telling them they are the injured woman's niece and nephew. They are informed of her death. Unsure what to do next, they head off.

Mary's dad leaves her with a neighbor as he goes off to make funeral plans. The old woman watches as the girl plays with Vita and her other toys. Mary doesn't seem very upset about recent events, snapping at the old woman when she won't give her more cookies. When the woman pushes Mary to rest, the girl snaps and Vita helps her attack with the toys in her room, eventually causing a book case to topple over on the old lady.

Micki and Ryan arrive then and hear the commotion in the house. Ryan gets the door open and they rush in, finding the neighbor lady unconcious on the floor, the toys all having magically gone back where they belong. Ryan calls 911 as Micki spies Mary and Vita outside at the nearby playground. She rushes out after them.

Micki tries to talk to Mary, telling her she doesn't want to take Vita away, but she has no choice. Mary declines and uses Vita to torment Micki with the playground equipment. Micki is shocked that the doll can actually do these supernatural things, but she persists, leaping onto the merry-go-round when Mary won't let Vita go. The two are spun around, faster and faster, as the wind picks up and the sky darkens. Soon, Ryan jumps on and wrestles with Mary for the doll. As he pulls it free, Mary is thrown off. The sky clears.

Vita would be a match even for Chucky!

Mary is alive, but injured. Micki takes her back to the house, but not before reminding Ryan that, while they got this doll back, there are many other cursed antiques still out there.

Jack puts the doll into the vault, locking the doors behind him. He tells the cousins that since they objects were cursed they cannot be destroyed, so the only safe place for them is in the vault, in the basement of the store. Micki then calls her fiancee and tells him she is going to be staying at the store longer than she thought. He hangs up on her.

Ryan says they should change the name of the shop and Jack suggests "Curious Goods". Micki points out that they need to get back everything Lewis sold, plus everything they unwittingly sold, as well. Where do they begin? she asks, as Jack gasps at an article in the newspaper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My thoughts:

For a pilot, this is a damn good episode! It presents the characters, the setting, the ongoing plot for the series and even their first adventure in recovering the cursed antiques!

We are given accurate glimpes into the personalities of all the main characters here. Micki is shown as a modern beauty who stands her ground, but with class and a good heart. Ryan is spirited and goofy, but brave as well. Jack is mysterious and worldly, but willing to stop all that to help undo something he feels partially responsible for. In fact, all three of the characters put their lives on hold, knowing that they have to get these items back because if they don't, who will?

The store itself is a character here, not only the place where it all begins and a good part of the action happens, but also where the items need to be stored for the safety of the world, and where dark forces are held at bay. It is a great, creepy set, with multiple levels and dark corners.

I know I am biased, since I love this show, but for me this episode just hits all the right notes. Upon original viewing, I am sure a lot of people we sitting asking where the hell Jason Voorhees was. But for me, but the time the credits rolled, I didn't care that Jason wasn't here. In fact, I was glad! This was a different world and I wanted to get to know it and these characters. For three years, we had that opportunity and to this day, I, for one, still miss this show, and these characters.

So, I hope you enjoyed this laid back walk down memory lane. Whether anyone reads or comments, I intend to do all 72 episodes.

This is my tribute to my favorite show.

Next week: "The Poison Pen"

Another One Bites the Dust

Here it is, December 1st yet again and where have I been all November?

Completing yet another NaNoWriMo!

Yup, I made it over 50,000 words and wrote a novel. Sadly, this novel isn't one I am particularly proud of. The damn story just got away from me. Luckily, it is fanfic, a story dealing with my version of what happened after Halloween 2 and before Halloween 4. Yeah, I know, a tale told many a time by many a fan, but hey, it is my version, as creaky as it turned out.

The important part is I did it.

Another year, another NaNoWriMo successfully accomplished.

Also, as an added bonus this year, my two youngest kids (ages 15 and 13) also completed 50,000 plus word novels of their own! I am very proud of them for even attempting it, much less completing it! Kudos to you both!

Now, on to Christmastime!

Happy Holidays everyone!

Reason #2 Why I Love TV

For my second post in this not-so-regular feature here, I am going back in time.




Reason #2 Why I Love TV: General Hospital.

This is better categorized as a "Why I USED to Love TV".


See, I was a GH fan for decades, from the mid/late 70s up until the early 2000's. I watched through a lot of ups and downs. But in the early part of the previous decade, the show lost its focus.


No longer did history, long-term characters and family matter. Instead, it was all about the mob. Granted, this was interesting. At first. But the show became all-mob, all-the-time. And to make matters worse, death became a quick-hit story plot device instead of something that mattered.


Long-term, important characters were killed off, either for monetary reasons or for supposed story advancement. But all that ended up happening (besides saving money in the budget, I suppose) was a bitter distancing of long-time fans.


After too much bloodshed and character assassination, I gave up. The show - whether it was the writers, producers, whomever - no longer cared about the fans who had been around so long. Budget took priority. The "hot" mob took center stage,  apparently permanently. And I, sadly, said adios.


But now I have read that the long-time head writer of the show was dumped and replaced with someone else. For the first time in a very long time, there is new blood in the writing room. I gave thought to revisiting the show I had watched so long. But, still I hesitated.


Then I started to read a few fan reviews. They seemed positive. Also, a long-time character (Dr. Monica Quartermaine) was being brought back. Things seem to be looking positive.


Of course, this comes at a time when it may just be too little, too late for the show. Daytime soaps are falling left and right, including the other two ABC shows, All My Children (off the air in September) and One Life to Live (off the air in January 2012.) There has been news that those shows will be moving online, in some format. And there are also rumblings that GH is poised for a similar fate, if and when it leaves the broadcast airwaves. Seems like a last-ditch way to try and hold on to the shows. But for some fans, better that than nothing at all.


All of that doom-and-gloom aside, we have DVR'd the last two episodes of GH. Will it be the show I remember? Probably not. But I am willing to give it a try, at least for old time's sake.


Maybe it will be like catching up with an old friend.  Hopefully it won't just be to say one final good-bye.

Like No One is Following...

I reblogged this pic over at my tumblr site (Another Cup of... Caffeinated Joe),
but thought it was worth sharing here, as well:

Obviously made about Twitter, it also works for blogging, whether here or at tumblr.
Do it for yourself, not for the follows or the comments or the reblogs.
Gotta enjoy it yourself or really, what's the point?

Dress Rehearsals

Often when you are anticipating, or dreading, a future moment in your life, you act out the coming scenes in your head. Usually over and over again.

And in these scenes, you want to be the hero, the person doing the right thing, for the right reasons, with perfect ease and no errors.

But in reality life doesn't work that way.

This world is made up of many actors, all trying to be the stars of our own dramas. Yet we are also the co-stars, character actors and bit players in the stories of others.

And as we get older, and perhaps wiser, we slowly learn this fact. So when we start doing dress rehearsals in our heads, we begin to play them in a more realistic light.

We won't always be the hero. More often than not, we will just be 'that guy'.

We won't always say what we want to say, because other people get in the way, with either their words or their emotions.

Each time, over the years, the scenes we play out beforehand resemble the eventual truth ever more.

We become jaded, or cynical. Practical or accepting, in more positive words.

I suppose, when we have it almost perfected, the credits roll.

Joseph Mello - 2009

Crossroads

Last week I did a post of one of Shakespeare's Sonnets. I have been reading them lately, and am subscribing to all 154 of them through DailyLit. Felt like sharing it.

And that is what brings me to this blog title: Crossroads. I haven't posted here since New Year's, except for a cartoon and the sonnet. I have felt like this blog lost its purpose, for me. Why? I am not sure.

Part of it might be the Horror road I went onto here. I never intended for this blog to be just a horror blog. I had originally intended this blog to just be, well, whatever I felt like posting. Here is what I originally posted when I started this blog:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, I will post what I want, when I want and how I want. I won't ask anyone to read it or comment on it or care about it.

I will at least be getting some flotsam and jetsam out of my head. Maybe I can help my writing, find some ideas for stories, articles - whatever. But it will all be just for me.

Feel free to read, or not. Feel free to share, or not. Enjoy it, or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't want to just close up shop here, so I am going to try and get back to that mindset. My blog, my space, I will post whatever.

Let's hope it works. And thanks to those who didn't delete me when things got quiet in these parts.

It is appreciated.

I'm on a Horse!

Thought this was funny:


The Office of Letters and Light Blog

I am so behind!

The Brave One

Louise hated that her sister always got her way.

"Oh, Louise. You can empty the trash. You know Myra is afraid of getting dirty." Mother would say.

Louise was no fan of it herself. But who emptied the trash? Louise.

"Oh, Louise. You can pull up the weeds. You know Myra is afraid of worms." Mother would say.

Yeah, and Louise was just gaga over them. But Louise did the weeding.

"Oh, Louise. You can sleep in the last room down the hall. You know Myra is afraid of the dark." Father would state.

But it's okay if Louise gets eaten by the night monsters. And Louise slept in the dark.

Always Louise, never Myra. Myra was always afraid.

Sometimes, Louise just got sick and tired of being the brave one.

And those are the words mother and father always used. "Louise, you are the brave one. We can count on you."

At this point, they must have counted on Louise a million times. And babied Myra a million times.

Now mother wanted the old suitcase from the basement. 

"Why can't Myra get it?" Louise asked.

"Oh, Louise." Mother said, as usual. "You know Myra is afraid of spiders.

Louise crossed her arms over her chest and stood still.

"Yeah, and I have tea parties with the spiders!" she said, her lips tight. "I don't want to. Let Myra."

Mother just answered, "You know you are the brave one."

That was it. There was no more discussion. If Louise pushed again, she would have to deal with Father. Not worth it.

She slowly walked toward the basement door. 

Standing before it, she kicked her left shoe with her right.

"I don't want to go down there." Louise said quietly to herself.

Myra was afraid of so many things. But the basement was the one thing Louise was most afraid of.

She wasn't afraid of the darkness down there. It never bothered her.

Nor was she afraid of the spiders. Or the earwigs. Or the mice that sometimes scampered underfoot. Little creatures never freaked Louise out.

What Louise dreaded was the slow walk down the stairs. 

It was dank and musty smelling, and until you got to the last few steps, your view of the cellar was blocked by the sloped ceiling.

Louise always felt like she was walking into the unknown when she went down there.

And by the time you realized there was nothing to be afraid of, you were at the bottom of the staircase.

But what if something had been there? It would be too late. You would be so close it would get you!

"I don't want to go down there." Louise said again, a bit louder. 

From behind, her mother said lightly. "Don't make me get Father, dear."

Louise put her hand on the doorknob and turned it. Slowly, she pulled the door in towards her.

The dark cellar loomed beyond.

She reached one hand inside the doorway and flicked on the light. A bulb at the top of the stairs went on, as did one in the basement. Neither helped her see the bottom.

Very quietly, under her breath, Louise whispered, "I hate Myra."

Carefully, she stepped into the doorway.

Then onto the first step.

She knew there were thirteen steps in all. She just had to get down twelve more.

Her right foot went to the second step. Her left joined quickly.

"Nothing to be afraid of." she told herself.

Step three. Step four.

Her heart began to beat a little quicker. 

Step five.

Her mind began to race. What could be down there?

"Nothing, silly." She told herself.

Step six.

Her hand stayed on the railing the entire time. It felt good to have something secure to hold on to. 

Step seven, and the 'squeak-squeak'. She remembered the squeaking, creaking of this step, because it meant she was halfway down.

Carefully, she stepped again. Number eight.

Still no way to see what was down in the basement. She tried to lower her head, but the place was just built so weird.

Father said it would cost too much to change it, even though he had to go down the stairs backwards or he would bump his head.

"Why did they build it like this, Father?" Louise had asked one day.

Step nine.

He said the person who first built the house wasn't really a builder. He did the best he could.

Louise thought that was a dumb thing for someone who wasn't a builder to do.

Step ten. 

One more step and she would be able to see beyond the slope. She wouldn't need to be afraid anymore.

She carefully stepped, right foot, then left foot. Number eleven.

And she still couldn't see.

"Must be getting taller." she told herself as her heart raced.

Step twelve.

Louise began to get nervous. Why wasn't she past the slope yet?

"Stupid Myra." she said, aloud this time.

Step thirteen.

She should be at the bottom. But... she wasn't. Steps still lay ahead. The slope of the ceiling still blocked her view.

Step... fourteen?

"How can this be?" Louise thought. Slowly, she stepped again.

Fifteen!

Her heart pounded in her chest. Her hand tight on the railing, she began to rush down the steps.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty!

"Oh no!" Louise yelled and stopped. Now she was scared. She was really, really scared. Steps still lay ahead. More steps than she could count!

She turned and looked back up. The landing at the top looked so far away!

"What is happening!?" Louise yelled, tears running down her cheeks. "Mother!"

"What is it? What's the matter?" her mother asked, grabbing Louise by the shoulder.

Louise was in the kitchen, at the top of the cellar stairs, her hand still on the light switch.

Her mother stepped closer and looked at her daughter's face.

"Louise! Why are you crying?" Mother demanded, worry in her voice.

"Mama!" Louise yelled, throwing her arms tightly around her Mother's waist. "Please don't make me go down there! Please! I will do anything else. I'll throw the trash! I'll pull the weeds! But not the cellar!"

Mother patted her back and brushed her hair with her hand.

"Oh Louise." she said, her voice soft. "Don't worry about it. I'll have Father get the suitcase later."

Louise hugged her mother even tighter. "Thank you!  I'm sorry, Mama."

"There is nothing to be sorry about, dear." Her mother hugged her back and said.  "It takes a courageous person to admit when they are afraid of something. And you are my little brave one."




~ J. Mello 5/14/2010 ~

About Blogging...

As anyone who visits here may have noticed, there hasn't been anything posted since May 1st, and even that was just an embedded video.

I have been having trouble feeling creative, whether it is just in blogging here or writing in general.

Writing itself is a whole issue, but, in regards to the blog at least, I think I was making this place too ... specific, I guess.

I started this blog back in October of 2008. Here is part of the very first post here:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


(writing about previous blogs)


I wrote a few random things, nothing major, nothing regular. I always thought "why bother" and "what could I post that anyone would want to read?" But, reading a post today from a friend who hit her six-year blog-anniversary, I was shown a reason why I should blog: For myself.

She made a point of saying that she writes to get the stuff out of her head, and that resonated with me. So, I will post what I want, when I want and how I want. I won't ask anyone to read it or comment on it or care about it.

I will at least be getting some flotsam and jetsam out of my head. Maybe I can help my writing, find some ideas for stories, articles - whatever. But it will all be just for me.

Feel free to read, or not. Feel free to share, or not. Enjoy it, or not.

I am going to!


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I obviously drifted away from that, a bit. I became sort of fixated on only posting things I was sure that would be of interest to others, especially things relating to horror films. I never intended for this to be a "horror movie only" site. Nor of any one particular subject, at all.


This was supposed to be randomness. Flotsam and jetsam. As it says above: "What I read, write, watch, listen to or do between hot cups of the good stuff." 


Hopefully, I can get back on track and post the weird and wonderful.
Hopefully, I will enjoy it once again.
In turn, I hope you will enjoy visiting here.

In The Mirror...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One

The room filled with the bright light as it did every morning. Catherine stirred, not wanting to face yet another day here, in this room, in this place. Eventually, she threw back the white comforter and white sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Sitting slowly, she looked down at her white, lace nightgown. Not her choice, but nothing here was her choice. Sliding her feet into the white slippers on the floor, she stood and looked at the ivory clock on the painted white mantel over the fireplace. Early, as usual. But it didn’t matter. Time stood still here.

Slowly walking to the long window, framed with white linen curtains, she tried once more to see the outside world. Only a blinding whiteness lay beyond the glass. Daytime was complete white, nighttime endless black. Always the same, always the same.

She pulled the white curtains closed over the window as if to block out the white beyond and turned away. Her eyes slowly scanned the room, as she had done a thousand times before. An ornate and old bed, painted white and dressed in white. A chair, upholstered in white. A white table, with a white lamp. The mantel was white, a bookcase was white, the floor, the ceiling, the walls: all white, white, white.

Only four things in the room broke the endless emptiness the monochromatic color scheme offered. One were the words in the novels on the bookcase. While the books themselves where bound in white, with white pages, the words were black. She could read, at least.

Second, she still had her fair complexion and soft, chestnut hair. She would look at her hand sometimes for hours, savoring the break from utter whiteness and wondering how long it would be before she too faded away.

Third, while the fireplace featured a white painted wooden frame around whitewashed bricks, the flames were bright hues of orange, yellow and red. The colors were welcome, as was the heat, but they did nothing to alleviate the desolation and loneliness she felt. She was always cold.

Night brought the opposite of the white. Blackness filled every space until all she could see was the fire. The room would seem endless then, a void where nothing mattered. She had nightmares of disappearing into the darkness, of losing herself and never finding her way back.

But then morning would come again, and the brightness would replace the darkness. Again. Opposites, yet both left her feeling empty, alone, scared.

She walked away from the mantle and toward the full size antique mirror that stood in the corner of the room, the last thing to give color to her small world. The mirror itself was painted white, the frame ornate and intricately detailed, with strange, carved faces of what she had at first thought were cherubs. Over time, she had seen the demonic visages for what they really were. More gargoyles than cupids.

Gazing into the mirror, she didn’t see her reflection looking back. Instead, she saw him and the world beyond. She knew the man’s name was Rafael. She knew other things about him she wished she didn’t. She also knew he was in the real world, the world of color and life, and that she was trapped here, in this strange, drab copy. Her prison.

He sat dressed in a black suit, on the bed that mirrored the one here, but with maroon and gold linens. On the opposite side of the looking glass in the antique frame, Rafael watched her and smiled at her, his crooked, sad smile. Then he stood and walked away, to the door in his room that was the one thing missing in her room. She had no exit, no escape.

Catherine watched him go out the door and shut it behind him. As he did, the room she saw in the antique frame shimmered and vanished, the glass once more solid white. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned away from the mirror. She was alone again. Nothing but the endless white, at least until the endless black replaced it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This week's Theme Thursday topic is "Mirror".

I decided to use the first chapter of the novel I wrote back during the NaNoWriMo of 2008.

For more Theme Thursday ---> Mirror

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snow

Theme Thursday posted "Snow" as the topic this week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snow may bring to mind the onset of winter,

Tiring hours of scraping and shoveling.

Or a Christmas wonderland of white,

Exciting days spent sledding and skiing.

To me, snow recalls a late December afternoon,

Magical moments with my baby girl, snowflakes swirling.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My daughter was born four days before Christmas.

That night, as I held her in my arms, I looked out the window and saw snow falling.

My nickname for her was born in that moment.

She is so much older now, a young woman I am constantly amazed by and proud of.

But she will always be my little Snowflake.



Love you!

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For more Theme Thursday, click here ---> Snow

And Happy Birthday, Ravyn!

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NaNoWriMo 2009 - Whew!

Another November has come and gone, and with it another NaNoWriMo.

And I won - I finished my novel, just over 50,000 words, about noon yesterday!



It was stressful, at times. Some days, the words were right there and my count rose steadily. Other days, not so much.

But I am done. I have now written three novels.

Big thanks to my wife, the lovely Ravyn. Thank you for all the support, advice and enthusiasm. I appreciate it all!

And I had to laugh when I looked at my blog post from last year regarding the 2008 NaNoWriMo. I mentioned possibly doing another novel on my own in January. Yeah, that didn't happen.

But heck, there's always this January!

And if not, I will be back for NaNoWriMo 2010 next November.

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Late

For the man and his wife life is going according to plan. At least, as much as they could plan how life went.

Their oldest child is 25 now, with a good head on his shoulders. He is married to a wonderful woman, moving up the ladder at work and moving into the first home he has to pay the mortgage on.

Their middle child is almost 14, smart, beautiful, funny and infinitely caring. High school is next on her already busy agenda.

Their youngest child is 11 (and a half, don't forget), bright, athletic, with a wacky sense of humor and an empathy for others beyond his years.

Their parents are proud of them all. And also content with their decision to stop at three children.

Unexpectedly, the wife announces to the husband she is late.

How could this be, they wonder. They had long ago taken permanent precautions. This plan was written in pen, not pencil. No erasing. No editing.

Patience, they counsel each other. A fluke. We will wait and see.

The wife doesn't think it is possible anyway, and doesn't want to think about it.

Her husband is surprised to find his mind wandering. The kids are so much older now, they don't need him, at least not in the way little kids need a parent. Independence is what we teach them to strive for, but once they are on that path, we see them walking further and further ahead. And they no longer hold our hands for guidance or safety.

A week passes. Still late.

The wife assumes it is the onset of menopause, not an unplanned pregnancy. We will wait and see, no cause for alarm. She doesn't really want to start all over again, so late in the game. They should be having grandchildren, not more children.

Her husband remembers the good times from the past. Little hands eager to grasp and explore. Little minds eager to learn and expand. Times spent teaching them to speak and walk, not to hush up and sit still. He warms to the thought of a little one. Just one more.

Another week passes. Still late. A test is taken. Negative.

The wife is relieved, of course it is negative. No way it could happen. That time has passed.

Her husband is torn. Part of him is relieved. No more colicky babies, no more teething, no piles of dirty diapers. That time has passed.

No more little ones holding tight to Daddy.

That time has passed.

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Click here for other Theme Thursday posts ---> LATE

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Moon - A Tenth Daughter of Memory Post

This post is my submission for the current Tenth Daughter of Memory topic, which is 'Moon'.

It is also chapter seven of the novel I am writing for NanNoWriMo.

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Back in his kitchen, Jake tossed the photo down on the table and walked over to the refrigerator. Had he not been so upset, he would have laughed at how cliche the contents of the appliance were.

Inside the door stood a bottle of ketchup, a bottle of mustard and a small glass jar of relish, all cheap, store brand items. Jake couldn't recall the last time he had touched one of them.

Beer made up the majority of items in the rest of the fridge. Two six-packs of the only brand he drank took up the entire top shelf. Below, a small tub of margarine and half a loaf of bread. Below that, a container from the Chinese place. He couldn't recall what was in it or when he had shoved it in here.

Next to it was a bottle of wine, laying on its side.

His eyes stayed on the wine as his hand reached for a beer. Sara had bought it and he could never bring himself to drink it. In fact, he had never even touched it. He let it lay, unopened, undisturbed, aging slowly, waiting.

With a beer in hand, he shut the door.

After using the edge of the counter to knock the cap off the bottle, he turned back to the small table. The sight of the picture he had dropped brought up the anger he had come home with, so instead he walked to the back door and out into the night.

A small set of five stairs led from the door to the walkway in his back yard. He sat on the top step and took a sip. The beer was cold and made him realize how unseasonably warm the air out here was. Much warmer than an early November night ought to be, he thought. Looking into the small yard, he realized it was much brighter than it should be, too.

He could barely make out the grass, which he knew needed mowing. The fallen leaves had covered almost the entire yard. He hadn't thought about raking them up. He mentally added them to his chore list, but wondered if they would still be here come Spring.

Further back, where Sara's old vegetable garden had been, tall weeds stood, dry and dying. They looked odd, he thought, creepy. He turned his gaze slowly upward, searching for the source of this midnight light.

He found it quickly, hovering above the skeletal trees, watching him. The moon, round and full and remarkably huge, with an orange glow that reminded Jake of fire. He sat, sipping his beer, staring at the moon as it stared back.

For so long he had felt alone.

His mother, his friends... They all meant well, but they really didn't understand what he was going through. He had taken to acting when he was with them, to play a role instead of just being himself. Always feeling more alone after spending time with any of them than he did before.

So, he avoided them.

And Gramps was gone. Until Sara came along, Gramps was the one person Jake could talk to, about anything. And even after Sara, he was the only one Jake could talk to about certain things. But Gramps was gone, and Jake still didn't know how to feel about his disappearance from his life.

And then there was Sara. Damn, how he missed her. The guilt rose up inside him, so he sipped the beer to quell it. It didn't help.

He looked up at the moon again. It just hung there, silently watching him. And for a moment, Jake didn't feel so alone.

Then a breeze picked up, causing the dry leaves to dance around the yard. There was a chill in the with the wind, a gentle reminder that this was November, after all.

Jake stood and, holding his beer out in front of him, looked up at the moon once more.

"Thanks for listening." he said. tipping the bottle a bit. Then he downed what was left and placed the empty bottle along the porch ledge, lining it up with all the others.

He stepped back in to his empty home. Alone.

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For more Tenth Daughter of Memory posts, click here ---> Moon

For my page at the NaNoWriMo site, click here ---> Wings1295

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Theme Thursday - Castle

Wanted to write something for this week's Theme Thursday, which is "Castle"

However, I am taking part in the NaNoWriMo again this year, and have been trying to keep my word count up. Still behind, but doing okay.

Here are some pics, at least.

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This is from our 2005 vacation to York Beach, Maine.
Me and my two youngest, having fun building castles in the sand.



A better pic of the kids.
Amazing to me how much older they look today, four short years later.



The castles that came from our time in the sand.
Fun memories.

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I remember the end of one vacation there, sitting in the sand with the castles done, the prospect of heading home and leaving the beach behind for a year looming.

My kids were sad that their creations would be lost forever. I told them not to think of it that way. Think of the the castles as being dissolved back into the sand, patiently waiting for next year. When we returned, we could pull them back up, rebuilding them to stand in the sun once more.

It helped them smile and feel a little better, before the waves came and erased their artwork from the beach.

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For more Theme Thursday posts, click here ---> Castle

For my page at the NaNoWriMo site, click here ---> Wings1295

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Over the Hill

The old man woke early, as usual. He slowly pulled his heavy frame out of bed and stood upright. He sighed.

Spring was beginning to give way to Summer, he could feel the warmth in the morning air. Work, his life's work, would begin again as well.

He lumbered across the shack he called home. The place was disgusting, but it had always been so. He paid no mind to such things and wasn't about to start this late in the game.

Out the door he went, unsure whether the creaking sound came from the rotting wood or from his weary bones, and not caring.

He stood silent, listening, inhaling and feeling the air. His work wasn't really work, in the basic sense. It was more who he was, why he was. It was instinct. It was his life.

They were coming, and he needed to prepare. Yet, for the first time his simple mind could recall, the journey was daunting. His legs felt huge and heavy. He looked off, past the trees. So far away.

He wanted to be the man his mother always said he was, to live up to her expectations. But he was tired.

The work never ended. No matter how much of himself he put into it, there was always more. More people, more work, more exhaustion.

He plodded, dragging his feet through leaves, slowly making his way forward. It was all he knew.

In his simple way, he thought about how easy it had all become. He had been successful in his work, year after year after year. No one had bested him for so long, he had nearly forgotten what it was like to lose.

Loss. The thought ignited a spark in his small brain.

When he was younger, he had lost, occasionally. Had been out-smarted or out-witted by a few. And the defeats had been tough, demeaning.

But, when he returned from those losses, he always came back stronger, better.

As he ambled up and over the small hill towards the campground, his mother's voice once again rose in his mind: "My special, special boy. You have a gift."

He knew, as much as he knew anything, that what he needed now was not to succeed, but to fail.

It would be painful and he hated the thought of letting them win. But, inevitably, he would be back. Stronger, healthier.

The old man he had become would be gone. Jason Voorhees would rise again.

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I was quite stumped by Theme Thursday this week, until I thought of "over the hill" being sort of the opposite of a previous topic, "beginning". The idea of doing a companion piece for my post on that topic was born.

Check out the other TT participants here.

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Tenth Daughter of Memory: DISTANCE

Earlier this month, I wrote about a new blog/project I am part of: The Tenth Daughter of Memory.

The first topic chosen was "And so it begins...", and lo and behold, my post won!

Cool! Thanks to those who voted.

My post was: The Beginning

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The new topic has to be picked by the winner, and I chose:

"Distance"


Painting by Roman Gumanyuk

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To participate, check out The Tenth Daughter of Memory!

It will be more fun with more bloggers joining in. And remember, it doesn't have to be writing, it can be whatever you want it to be!

C'mon... You know you want to!

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The Beginning

Enough is enough, Pam thought.

She had obeyed her husband's wishes for four long years.

Part of her knew he was right, at least in the beginning. She had been so afraid of anything happening to her precious new baby boy that she had willingly gone along with her husband's very strict, unwavering rule: Never leave the house. She had kept her son inside, always away from prying eyes and gossiping mouths.

They had been four long years. But never lonely. She had her amazing son to fuss over and focus on.

Her husband wasn't really interested in her anymore anyway, nor she in him. He insisted her singular obsession with their boy had ruined their love for one another. But in reality, it was his barely concealed hate of the child that had made her grow to despise the man she had once adored. Their only moments of intimacy came when he was drunk and demanding.

That had resulted in their new baby daughter, who needed attention that Pam just couldn't spare. She knew she had begun to neglect the infant, but the boy just need more love, more time, more patience.

Her husband didn't understand. He said she preferred the boy over everyone else, that she didn't even care about the little girl.

Well, so what? Pam had spat back. Her son had no one else. Certainly not his father, that was for damn sure. So she had to compensate. She had to be not only his mother, but also his father, his friend, his playmate. The truth was, she was his life, and he was hers.

The boy had witnessed this fight between his parents and reacted as he usually did, crying and screaming.

When her husband raised his hand to strike her beautiful boy for the very first time in his life, she snapped. The woman she became in that moment was strong as steel and willing to do whatever it took to defend her helpless little boy.

Her husband's eyes said it all. There was fear there that he had never possessed before. Within an hour, him and their daughter were gone. It was just her and her boy now. The way it should have always been.

To be honest, Pam was relieved. Now she didn't have to worry about the crying baby or her drunk husband demanding any of her time. She could focus solely on her son. Her beautiful boy.

But last night was the past. Today was the future. And she would hide no more.
The walk to the park was uneventful. The few people they passed stared at her child. He was beautiful, she had to admit. A special boy.

At the park, she sat on a bench, like all the other mothers, while her child ran off to play like all the other children. Soon though, there were cries. One by one, the mothers took their children left the park. Odd she thought.

He had climbed up into a swing and was trying to gain momentum. Pam got up from her bench and walked over to push her boy.

He was smiling and happy. This has gone well, she thought, oblivious to the fact that the park was now deserted, save the two of them.

Her mind raced ahead. School, she thought. She would need to sign him up for Kindergarten. She could volunteer to help the teacher, just in case he needed her during the day.

And baseball, too, that would be good for him and his energy. She could help there, too, maybe even coach. She didn't care what the other mothers thought of that.

And then in a year or two, summer camp. She could work there, as well. Anything to make sure her boy was well taken care of.

"Yes, Jason. Mommy wants you to have such a wonderful life. Just like any other little boy."

Pamela Voorhess pushed her son on the swing, and he squealed with delight.

The Tenth Daughter of Memory

Today I want to highlight a new blog/project I am a part of.

The Tenth Daughter of Memory is a new blog that aims to generate creativity among bloggers, writers and creators of all kinds.

Twice a month, a topic will be posted. Anyone who wishes can then do a post on their own blog using the topic in some way. No rules on what you create, you have total freedom. Writing, pictures, memories, drawings, musings, videos - WHATEVER. Just have it connect with the topic in some way.

There will be a deadline for each topic, and once that deadline is reached, no further submissions will be allowed. Then, all those who want to can read all the posts. But the catch is you have to vote for the blog you like the best out of the lot.

The winner of each topic gets the 'honor' of posting the next topic. And it all begins again.

Hopefully, it will all be fun, creative and interesting.

The first topic went up yesterday, so head on over to The Tenth Daughter of Memory if you want to take part. We look forward to seeing you there!