tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82380699799544012602024-03-19T03:43:31.544-07:00Tena's Jar Of AwesomeThe writings, ramblings and musings of a scientist and amateur fiction writer, on my journey to become a real live adult in the world.Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-69141318917027437042019-10-11T13:46:00.000-07:002019-10-11T13:46:37.005-07:00I hadn't considered the ghosts. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I have always wanted to live in a Victorian house. When the End
came, we fled our home in the suburbs for the safety of the family farm. None
of the surrounding farms were occupied anymore. It seemed that everyone else
had fled for the comfort of the city. We declared squatters’ rights and found a
place with a perfect vegetable patch and a well with a hand pump. The house was
my dream, a Victorian home. We are safe here, if isolated from other living
people. Just our family, dogs, chickens… and the ghosts. I hadn’t considered
the ghosts. </div>
Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-89720206877160787062019-04-03T12:59:00.002-07:002019-04-03T12:59:50.063-07:00Journey Into...my voice!I recently was given the chance to voice a part for Marshall Latham's Journey Into... Podcast. The story went up today, enjoy!!<br />
<br />
<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://journeyintopodcast.blogspot.com/2019/04/journey-147-journey-into-ifc-by-r-c.html&source=gmail&ust=1554407841243000&usg=AFQjCNEbO2AAPP7spt-S04BNwmgJvB-fXg" href="http://journeyintopodcast.blogspot.com/2019/04/journey-147-journey-into-ifc-by-r-c.html" target="_blank">http://<wbr></wbr>journeyintopodcast.blogspot.<wbr></wbr>com/2019/04/journey-147-<wbr></wbr>journey-into-ifc-by-r-c.html</a><br />
<br />
Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-12406414400848869082019-03-20T15:31:00.001-07:002019-04-03T12:59:57.520-07:00Hello again, after long silenceIt's been a long time, hasn't it? Nearly 3 years.<br />
<br />
My creative juices have been a bit dried up, I guess. Or else they've all been channeled into house and yard stuff! I have done some voicework for the <a href="https://dunesteef.com/" target="_blank">Dunesteef</a> and the <a href="http://rishoutcast.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Rish Outcast </a>in the past couple years (links below), and today I actually wrote a poem. I have not yet decided if I will put it up here or if I will submit it somewhere (or both, I suppose). It's about a very controversial topic so I don't know that I will put it here. I will be trying to write more, and try to channel more into this space. My heart has been missing this side of myself.<br />
<br />
Dunesteef voice work:<br />
<a href="https://dunesteef.com/2015/12/15/episode-177-wikihistory-by-desmond-warzel/" target="_blank">Episode 177: Wikihistory, by Desmond Warzel</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://dunesteef.com/2015/12/24/episode-178-present-of-the-christmas-ghost-by-rish-outfield/" target="_blank">Episode 178: Present of The Christmas Ghost by Rish Outfield </a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://dunesteef.com/2016/10/11/episode-185-chloey-joey-zoey-and-david-bowie-by-b-d-anklevich/" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://dunesteef.com/2016/10/11/episode-185-chloey-joey-zoey-and-david-bowie-by-b-d-anklevich/" target="_blank">Episode 185: Chloey, Joey, Zoey, and David Bowie by B.D. Anklevich</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://dunesteef.com/2018/05/30/episode-198-out-of-the-bag-by-rish-outfield/" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://dunesteef.com/2018/05/30/episode-198-out-of-the-bag-by-rish-outfield/" target="_blank">Episode 198: Out Of The Bag by Rish Outfield </a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://dunesteef.com/2018/08/07/episode-199-return-to-waypoint-5-by-josh-roseman/" target="_blank">Episode 199: Return to Waypoint 5 by Josh Roseman</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Rish Outcast voice work:<br />
<a href="http://rishoutcast.blogspot.com/2017/08/rish-outcast-81-have-it-your-way.html" target="_blank">Episode 81: Have It Your Way</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Oh and I also published a scientific paper! If you feel like reading it, it can be found <a href="https://sleep.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s41606-018-0030-2" target="_blank">here</a>. <br />
<br />
Hopefully this space will see a lot more activity from now on! <br />
<br />
<br />Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-66898968789429474892016-05-27T21:24:00.000-07:002016-05-27T21:24:01.680-07:00I Left My Heart at the Lake<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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When we arrived. </div>
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His pale gray eyes sparkled</div>
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Contrasting warm and tanned skin. </div>
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Behind the boathouse. </div>
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Exchanging hurried kisses</div>
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Inexperienced hands groping in the shadows.</div>
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One hand reaching out for me</div>
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Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-30123133843569245592013-12-30T17:05:00.000-08:002014-01-03T08:58:37.734-08:00Author's Note: Christmas for Georgina<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/11510443/?claim=6j5xx5ms2wf">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a><br />
<br />
I was listening to Bigg Anklevitch and Rish Outfield's <a href="http://dunesteef.com/2013/12/06/episode-148-house-of-ideas-by-rish-outfield/">Dunesteef Audiofiction Magazine</a> recently, and a story by Rish (House of Ideas) mentioned in passing an idea about a little kid that's a werewolf. For whatever reason, that idea stuck with me; adding in the fact that Christmas was approaching made the idea blossom for me. I was originally going to have Georgina eat Santa Claus, but that ending didn't really fit with the final version of the story. I hope you liked it!Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-71768866449555720902013-12-30T17:00:00.000-08:002013-12-30T17:00:01.713-08:00Christmas for Georgina<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-2d518305-45ad-0e82-34a1-bbe3b390ee79" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">December 22 </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The small girl shuffled down the street. She’d sold all her candies for the day, and had just enough money after the day’s sales to buy a day old cinnamon roll after she’d paid what was owed to Big Miss at the Center. She rubbed her dirty hands together for warmth and in excitement. Her stomach growled noisily. She hurried to the corner cafe. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As the door chime rang out, the clerk looked up from the paper he’d been reading. A smile softened his face as he saw the child enter. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Georgina! How are you?”</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The girl smiled shyly and cleared her throat. “I’m good, Mr. Brent. I need to use the loo, is that ok?” </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Go right ahead. I have a special treat for you when you come back.”</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgina scurried down the corridor to the restroom. While washing her hands, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her dirty blond hair was passably clean, but messy, so she tried her best to tidy it. This accomplished she gave her face a cursory scrub and tossed her paper towel in the bin on her way out. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Brent handed the girl a big cup of cocoa, complete with whipped cream and even a muffin to eat. Georgina’s eyes grew wide in surprise. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh, Mr. Brent, thank you! But I can’t pay you for this, I don’t have enough money!” A deflated expression settled on her face. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Georgina, no need to worry! It’s Christmas! My gift to you, little one.” He smiled at her and turned to go back to the counter. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Christmas? What was Christmas? She wondered while she nibbled her muffin and sipped her cocoa. It seemed like something she should know but the memory was elusive. She looked around the cafe. Did Christmas have something to do with all the evergreen boughs she’d seen strewn around? And the music that had been piping relentlessly from storefronts? </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgina sat for a long time, savoring the rare treats she’d been given. Mr. Brent had given her the food as a gift… a long forgotten memory drifted in the back of her mind. Gifts. Christmas was about gifts. And… family? Did Georgina have a family? It was so hard for her to remember. She vaguely recalled the sensation of warm fur, strong arms and a deep, rumbly voice. Her father? She must be remembering wrong. People don’t have fur. He must have had a beard. Or maybe a fur coat. But where was he now? Why was she all alone? </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Georgina, kiddo, isn’t it about time you headed back to the Center?” Brent’s voice was mellow, soft, and kind, but startled Georgina from her reverie nonetheless. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly five; if she wanted to avoid trouble she’d have to run to get back. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh, thank you Mr. Brent! I didn’t know it was so late!” She wrapped her too-large coat around her and hurried to the door. “Thank you again for the cocoa. And the muffin. I do have to run, I have to be back before it’s too dark or Big Miss will be angry. G’bye!”</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Goodnight, Georgina. It shouldn’t be too dark, it’s nearly a full moon out. Take care of yourself. And Merry Christmas!”</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Rushing back down the street toward the Center, Georgina overheard someone saying that Christmas was only three days away. Now that she’d become aware of the holiday, it seemed to permeate the air around her. A child yelled something about a person named Santa just as Georgina passed him and her mind filled with the color red and the sound of bells. She didn’t have time to process these memories as they surfaced, because she had arrived at the massive oak door of Miss Maloney’s Center for Unwanted Children. Georgina pulled the door open just wide enough to slip inside, where she promptly bumped into the ample bulk of Big Miss. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Watch where you’re going, you little wretch!” the woman snapped. Georgina leapt back, apologizing. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m so sorry, Miss. I didn’t see you, it won’t happen again.” She began to reach into her pocket to bring out her earnings from the day’s sales. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“See that it doesn’t. Have you got my money?” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgina nodded and handed the woman what she had. Big Miss counted the bills and coins, and handed the child a single dollar back. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“But Miss…. oh thank you, Miss.” The child’s eyes grew wide. A whole dollar? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Big Miss smirked. “Hmph. It’s not from me, kid. Miss Maloney herself ordered that you all get a pittance for Christmas.”</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgina didn’t know what a pittance was, but she did know not to press her luck by sticking around Big Miss longer than necessary. She scurried up to the girl’s dormitory and ran to her bunk. Amy, a little older than Georgina, was sitting on her own bed and looking at a ragged piece of paper with a sad expression on her face. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hey, Georgie. D’ye hear about Lisbeth?” When Georgina shook her head, Amy went on. “She was taken away today. A lady came and wanted her and she adopted her.” Amy began to cry. Most of the children in the center were transient, and either ran away or were adopted within a few months. Whether they were adopted into loving families or adopted as servants was not the concern of the management, though the children speculated amongst themselves. Amy was one of the few children who’d been at the Center for more than two years. She had a weak leg which made it hard for her to work, and her plain looks and thin face didn’t make her stand out particularly well when potential families came around. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh,” was the only thing Georgina could think to say. She didn’t really know what she was supposed to do when people started crying. She herself had only arrived at the center a few weeks before, and she didn’t remember much of her life before that. The child stuffed her dollar into a hole in her mattress and hurried down to the mess hall. If you missed supper, there was no more food until morning, and that was usually thin, salty porridge. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There were a few boys clustered together near the fireplace when Georgina entered the hall. She sat down near enough that she could hear their mumblings. More about this Santa Claus. After a moment Georgina gathered that the boys were arguing about whether Santa would find them in the Center or not, but they would put their stockings out on their beds come Christmas Eve just in case. This puzzled Georgina greatly; she didn’t understand what socks might have to do with Christmas. She finished her stew, which had by some miracle had actual meat in it, took her bowl to the kitchen and trudged upstairs for bed. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Amy seemed to be done crying and had fallen asleep on top of her bed. Georgina picked up the paper Amy had been looking at. It was a letter from someone named “Mommy” and said that she was sorry but she’d be back before too long. From the look of it, Amy had read and folded this paper countless times. Gently setting the paper back on top of the sleeping girl, Georgina climbed into her own bed to think. Darkness enveloped her, and eventually someone came in and lit the fire in the fireplace at the end of the long room. Georgina heard the last few girls come in and the squeak of bedsprings as they settled themselves. A few whispers, then silence. There were only seven, no, six girls now, since Lisbeth was gone. It was quiet, even as one of the oldest girls began to snore softly. Georgina was evidently the youngest, though she couldn’t remember exactly how old she was. She was certainly the smallest. She lay for a long time, trying to remember anything about her life before the Center. A few flashes of memory, about running through the snow with someone. She must have been much smaller then, because the ground seemed closer. Warm, crackling fires. The rumbling male voice that must be her father. Eventually the snippets of memory faded into snippets of dream, and the child slept. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">December 23</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When the girls woke the next morning, a thick blanket of snow covered the ground. The Center was not permitted to send the children outdoors on such days (rumors of children freezing to death in the snow had forced the policy), so they were confined to the Mess Hall. Despite the fact that Big Miss brought in a tub of tarnished silver for every pair of children, giving out rags for polishing, there was a jovial air about the place. Some of the boys started singing a song about a reindeer with a red nose, though they didn’t get far before the cook came in from the kitchen and scolded them to silence. There were whispers about Santa, gifts, wistful tales about the family they hoped would come and take them to a warm and cozy home. Some kids remembered the families they’d been born to, and told stories about mothers or fathers or grandparents. Eventually a boy named Donnie, who was sitting near Georgina, leaned over to her.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hey, kid. What you askin’ Santa for?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The girl blinked. “Me? Why should I ask him for anything?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Donnie laughed. “You for real? Cuz the man brings stuff to kids who’s good.” He shook his head at Georgina’s perplexity. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh. I dunno. What would you ask for?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Eh, probly a mom. Maybe a penknife so’s I can make sumpin’ to sell. Make some coin, get outta here afore Big Miss can take it all.”</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The girl paused in her silver polishing and looked at him. “Oh. I guess I’d ask him to make me remember then.”</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Remember what?” Donnie bent over the platter in front of him, but glanced at her, slightly puzzled.</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Everything. Where I was before this. Where I came from.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Donnie looked down again. “You kinda weird, ya know?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgina didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept quiet and Donnie didn’t talk to her any more. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">December 24</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The children were sent out to sell their wares (usually candy, though some of the older kids were given mittens or scarves to sell), as the snow had at least been cleared from the streets. Big Miss slammed the door behind them as they scattered. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgina wandered about, offering candy to the women with children because they were most likely to buy it. Today she had peppermints, and one little boy squealed with delight when his mother bought him one. It seemed that more people were rushing around than usual, but maybe that had to do with Christmas. One of the big girls had explained to the smallest kids that people in families buy presents for each other for Christmas, so they have to buy them before the day arrives. Georgina thought that sounded nice. She had sold about half of her candy when she spied a storefront with a tiny baker doll in the window display. Walking closer, she thought it would be a lovely gift for Mr. Brent, if she could afford it. He was always so kind to her. True, she needed a new sweater, but her old one was warm enough for now. Georgina entered the store, her precious dollar clutched in her hand. The young lady clerk smiled at her and told her that the doll was ninety cents. Georgina lit up when she bought it, thanking the lady and returning to the street with a smile on her face. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The next hours dragged by as Georgina wished her candy would sell faster so she could take the gift to Mr. Brent. At last there was only one piece left. They were ten cents each, so Georgina put her remaining dime in the money pouch and savored the peppermint as she walked to the cafe. She was so excited to see Mr. Brent that she hardly noticed how hungry she was.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The bell over the door rang, and Brent welcomed her as usual. Suddenly shy, Georgina stuffed her hands into her pockets and withdrew his gift. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Brent. I thought you might like this.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As he opened the small parcel, his smile broadened. “Oh, Georgina. Thank you. I think he will live right here, on the shelf, and watch me bake.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The little girl grinned as she watched Brent place the doll on a shelf above the counter, and she started toward the door. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wait, Georgina! I was hoping you’d come in today. I have an extra cookie for you.” With a smile, he handed her a sugar cookie as big as her hand. It was frosted to look like a large bearded man in a red suit. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Thanks, Mr. Brent. Is this Santa?” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Of course!” Brent replied, with a small chuckle. “You’d better scoot though, it’s nearly dark. I’d hate for you to get in trouble on Christmas Eve!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh, thank you Mr. Brent. Have a good Christmas!” She hurried out the door, his “Merry Christmas” following her into the chilly air. The sun was nearly set, and the moon had not yet risen. In spite of the happiness that infused her entire being, something seemed to prickle the back of her neck. She was suddenly very eager and anxious to get back to the Center. Georgina ate her cookie as she hurried down the streets, finishing just before she arrived in front of the great doors. A boy named Mike got there just after her and opened the door to bring them both in from the cold evening. As usual, Big Miss was waiting just inside for her money. Mike handed his over first but got a lecture about not having sold everything again. Georgina deposited her own earnings into Big Miss’s doughy hand and rushed off to the Mess Hall. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As the evening progressed, Georgina felt more anxious and uncomfortable. The creeping feeling was strangely familiar but not at all comforting. The girl began to feel ill and frightened. After picking at her supper of boiled chicken and unidentifiable limp vegetables, she went upstairs to bed. Nobody else was in the dormitory, and she changed into her nightgown and crawled under the covers until not even her head poked out. Her skin felt prickly and goose-pimply. She wasn’t cold, but she was shivering violently. A shaft of moonlight from the full, white face of the moon peeked in the window and fell across her blanket. With one final shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut and was finally able to force her little body into peace and sleep. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Some time later, she woke. She smelled the smoke from the fireplace. Somehow, Georgina could even smell the other girls in their beds. They smelled warm and salty-sweet and alive. Her brain tried briefly to question the fact that she could smell these things tonight when she couldn’t remember smelling them before, but the inability to remember seemed to be her lot in life and the thoughts drifted away. She pushed her nose out from her blankets. There was someone else in the room. She sniffed. A man? He smelled like… soot. And large animals. Reindeer? Something else. Sweets. Peppermint and gingerbread? She wriggled further out from the covers, a soft whine working its way out. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The man whirled around. His sparkling eyes caught sight of the pup on the bed, caught in a nightdress. </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Georgina! Sweet child! I wondered where you had gotten to.” He strode to her and scooped her up in his big arms, tucking her tail beneath her and gently scratching her head. “Your Da has so been worried about you. He has hardly been able to keep guard of the reindeer. Let’s go home, little one. You’ve got quite a story to tell, I’m sure, but now, you rest. The story can wait.” </span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The deep rumbly voice was familiar, comforting, and soon the little girl was asleep. She hardly noticed when she was placed in a sledge and wrapped in a quilt at the man’s feet. Georgina’s dreams were filled with jingling bells, snorting reindeer, and her father’s warm embrace.</span></div>
Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-2541249586782175492013-07-22T13:46:00.002-07:002013-07-22T13:46:38.649-07:00Longing for Fall (a poem)The heat lays on my skin<br />
Like damp gauze<br />
I long for Fall<br />
Even though Autumn<br />
Will bring Kindergarten<br />
For my firstborn<br />
<br />
Truly, before the Fall arrives<br />
The air will cool<br />
The leaves will change<br />
And the garden will ripen<br />
The birds will fly South<br />
Heedless of the Equinox<br />
<br />Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-80892274469030123662013-05-03T20:00:00.000-07:002013-05-03T20:00:07.199-07:00Ramblings, after a long absence. I'm feeling rather like writing today, but with no particular goal in mind. I could work on the story I recently started reviving, but that's laying to sleep for a bit until more inspiration bites me in the ass. I could do some slush reading, but that's not writing, and therefore not what I'm in the mood to do.What I really want to do is find a sunny (dry) spot outside, and sit there, and write. Perhaps get a little sunburned, definitely get a little more freckle-covered.<br />
<br />
I could work on a blog post about breastfeeding (for my other blog...) and I could give some thought to combining my three blogs into one. Or two. I don't really want to do that though. I could also start publishing my more essay-like posts over here in addition to the other blog. We'll see. I would like to keep this one as my creative endeavors blog, and keep it free of the detritus of day to day life.<br />
<br />
I have found that getting adequate exercise helps my brain's creative side flourish a little more. There's something about running with music pounding in my ears that brings it about. I've been also using the Zombies,Run! app, which is lots of fun and I generate in-the-moment fan fiction in my head as I go, but don't bother to write it down when I get home. I should. It might at least be a good jumping off point. Maybe, now that my brain has purged a little of the bubbling-over words, I could focus my energies to work on my story.<br />
<br />
I will leave you with a poem I wrote on my way home the other day (at a stoplight, lest you think I was texting while driving).<br />
<br />Traffic sucks<br />
Stopping all the time<br />
This is lame<br />
<br />Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-86664537182104134312013-02-28T17:30:00.000-08:002013-02-28T17:30:01.013-08:00Hey, there...want a free Kindle book?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Dctea3slL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-70,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Dctea3slL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-70,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I am a big fan of Mike Bennett and his work, and he has a number of short story collections available. One of them, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Salvation-and-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00A3SVMVA/ref=la_B004UGS2UK_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1362086469&sr=1-7" target="_blank">Salvation and Other Stories</a>, is currently available for *free* via the Amazon kindle store. This is only available for free for 3 days, so hop on over there and get it, read it, and rate it!<br />
<br />
This collection includes "Night Crossing" which is the introduction to Mike's epic vampire saga <i>Underwood and Flinch</i>
which is available as a free podcast through iTunes. I really, really
love U&F and can't wait to buy it when it does come out in paper. Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-84559551874327431732012-07-27T17:19:00.000-07:002012-07-27T17:19:00.766-07:00Brain Purge Friday(Cue movie announcer voice)<br />
<br />
In a world, where a Prince is the Antichrist...where men are men and women are women...where chickens rise up against their oppressors and text messaging has all but destroyed the English language...Can one small girl beat the odds and win her local spelling bee?<br />
<br />
*******<br />
<br />Susie skipped slowly along the stream, silently supposing that slippery slime might be succulently supped upon with scaly snakes.<br />
<br />
*******<br />
<br />
Coffee is the ambrosia of the modern day gods. Gods of dreamland excepted, of course. They especially enjoy a new "Refreshers" beverage, the energy source of which is differentfromcaffeinewepromise.<br />
<br />
*******<br />
<br />
The muscle twitches. There are enough cells now that it can be called a muscle. Lymph flows, the organism grows, awaiting its destiny.Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-14691085338723084102012-06-28T15:55:00.002-07:002013-05-03T11:55:06.797-07:00Fire<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.2645020687190247" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Lightning
skewers the clouds, penetrating the dry fecundity of the earth. Flames
seethe and dance as they flare outward and envelop a newly hatched life.
Trees splinter and crackle as they crash to the ground. Sap simmers and
sputters, smoke plumes overtake the once-blue sky. A sharp crack echoes
as another home, another cache of memories, collapses under its own
wounded weight. Rain is nothing to this awakened inferno. The young
beast writhes and moans in ecstasy, snorting redundant sparks. The
blackened forest weeps with the charred blood and flesh of the life it
once hosted, and the dragonlet feasts.</span></div>
Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-24866023976095328202011-12-09T17:25:00.000-08:002011-12-09T17:25:00.377-08:00Tacos<span id="internal-source-marker_0.4761751086446624" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It
all started at lunch today, when my hand caught the edge of my taco
plate. Spicy meat juice splattered all over me, to the great amusement
of witnesses. I smell like tacos now. No big deal, right? Yeah, well, I
wasn’t counting on the rats. Apparently they have a thing for tacos. I’m
not sure if they want to mate with them or eat them, but they’ve been
following me all day. Skittering and squeaks behind my back, but as soon
as I turn, they’re gone. Oh God. Is that a...NO! It’s a Rodent of
Unusual Size! RUN! </span>Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-35683388100046000202011-12-09T13:00:00.001-08:002011-12-09T13:09:15.152-08:00With a Flapping of Wings<span id="internal-source-marker_0.7917771667396221" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
can feel it here, inside, under my skin. It begins just beneath the
muscles in my back, goose-flesh rippling against the bones. There’s a
writhing along my vertebrae. Maggots. Terror solidifies there, trying to
build, making my body an ill fit. It is trying to break through, but
hasn't yet. I fight it. The sensation grows; I try to convince myself
that it's just a feeling, crawling along the nerves of my spine like a
repressed shudder between my shoulder blades. Phantom wings trapped
beneath my skin, twitching and pulling. My skin crawls as I begin to
doubt that this is just in my head. There is really something </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">there</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">,
hiding along my bones and inside my muscles and my nerves. It spreads
its arms and wings and legs and stretches luxuriantly. I feel something
wrapping around my ribcage and creaking against my sternum. My stomach
clenches and I want to vomit but do not feel nauseous. My heart can't
decide whether to pound or to flutter. Tears prick my eyes and I cry out
at the intensity of the horrid itching that has replaced the
goose-flesh ripples inside. I feel the slithering of some plurality of
limbs moving along my torso and my arms and legs, buds pushing out from
the sides of my body, not yet bursting through. The skin on my back
stretches with painful sharpness and I experience a burning like
childbirth as my back opens up. My fingers seize and I watch in
horrified awe as something sharp and black begins to protrude from each
fingertip. The flesh rends and peels back, revealing scaly claws where
smooth skin once lay. The scales seem to absorb light, yet they
reflect, like oil, a diseased rainbow. Black. I feel new, supernumerary
arms emerging from their buds on my sides, tearing through, flexing and
seeking freedom from their cage of meat. The flesh of my face begins to
stretch with the same sharpness as my spine. I feel sharp ridges emerge,
splitting my skin, finally shedding my former flesh like a husk. I
stretch my maw in an experimental yawn and tap my newly emerged talons
against the ground, then leap skyward with a tremendous </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">whoosh </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">of my leathery wings. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons License" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/3.0/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0;" /></a><br /><span href="http://purl.org/dc/dcmitype/Text" property="dct:title" rel="dct:type" xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/">With a Flapping of Wings</span> by <a href="http://www.blogger.com/tenasjarofawesome.blogspot.com" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL" xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#">Tena Kolakowski</a> is licensed under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/" rel="license">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License</a>. </span>Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-33680475543079756572011-10-16T20:45:00.000-07:002011-10-16T20:45:58.949-07:00Fall Cookies!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I made these cookies this weekend, partly because I wanted to (ok, mostly because I wanted to, since I got some awesome new fall cookie cutters at Target in the cheapo bins. $2.50 for 6 cookie cutters? Yes please!) and partly because we had a family birthday party today, and I knew that everyone would like some cookies.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpCXFOQKd4UKjVkVdKpwgIYPnL9Ho0HfatT-ZuoLKbpNP7QoOinsZ1af-fOR-z4yiu_rqmlFAD3-NehxsHTWCPkwvhkDTbGHBY0qPk6OwJsSi9Cufu33jEwAgwIp_IMB2QZO4-kEdeQ0/s1600/P1030037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpCXFOQKd4UKjVkVdKpwgIYPnL9Ho0HfatT-ZuoLKbpNP7QoOinsZ1af-fOR-z4yiu_rqmlFAD3-NehxsHTWCPkwvhkDTbGHBY0qPk6OwJsSi9Cufu33jEwAgwIp_IMB2QZO4-kEdeQ0/s320/P1030037.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3EjV3cpDWc5G0zZYqMT1XWcNzCI7rWhY7bVo38hQEDOmN98L9wYpwMP182eyPlpaa9wQbNdDP38Mnh2Tg7WwIuNh3VRzp5rnf-WK9USNsXf2qH7lDX8OSW91jweUzt7ZyEZcjAjTwh0/s1600/P1030036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3EjV3cpDWc5G0zZYqMT1XWcNzCI7rWhY7bVo38hQEDOmN98L9wYpwMP182eyPlpaa9wQbNdDP38Mnh2Tg7WwIuNh3VRzp5rnf-WK9USNsXf2qH7lDX8OSW91jweUzt7ZyEZcjAjTwh0/s320/P1030036.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I am very proud of these. I am especially loving the owls, they were so much fun to make!. Also, they are SUPER yummy and super chocolatey.<br />
<br />
The recipe for the cookies can be found at LilaLoa's blog, it's <a href="http://lilaloa.blogspot.com/2011/03/end-all-for-chocolate-cookies-recipe.html">the End-All for Chocolate Cookies</a>.The dough is almost satiny, it's probably my favorite cookie dough that I've ever used to make cutouts.Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-7140913825161671472011-10-14T17:00:00.000-07:002011-10-14T17:00:03.929-07:00No soup for you!Darn, rejected again. I need to find some more flash fiction markets.Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-40741099888054809462011-10-11T17:08:00.000-07:002011-10-11T17:08:00.644-07:00Submitted "With a Flapping of Wings" to <a href="http://themolotovcocktail.com/">The Molotov Cocktail</a>. <br />
<br />
Currently editing "Numb" for sending around to some new places.<br />
<br />
Goal: At minimum, 2 new rejections. At best, an acceptance, someday. :-) No, I am not being pessimistic! Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-32169086579731409592011-09-26T23:03:00.000-07:002011-09-26T23:03:31.200-07:00I find this terribly funny.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1oleVNHyTw3ElI6gKzN71ckq_Zmol6Q24rJI-UvJsyfthQrO5v1OgU_Xr5W_-A_0uZFOc0W66fj5mHtHbSHeqz6HFln0G_-KG4ggwna-jMMLKayhYESDjsBYGn-n06W4krLUwcV_s-c/s1600/P1020942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1oleVNHyTw3ElI6gKzN71ckq_Zmol6Q24rJI-UvJsyfthQrO5v1OgU_Xr5W_-A_0uZFOc0W66fj5mHtHbSHeqz6HFln0G_-KG4ggwna-jMMLKayhYESDjsBYGn-n06W4krLUwcV_s-c/s320/P1020942.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaSmEn1aSd9iSL972-BDczKfTwFjQADJa1eDETk5ZqZbRHuZn_iPr5Dr_0T8c6VMXwB57ERhnuzPAdpUj5RN0FmjQLCjwDRFztaJWPOzc10nIyPXAY6WRJ3iLTCeosc-Wy6MNGjJm3kw/s1600/P1020943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaSmEn1aSd9iSL972-BDczKfTwFjQADJa1eDETk5ZqZbRHuZn_iPr5Dr_0T8c6VMXwB57ERhnuzPAdpUj5RN0FmjQLCjwDRFztaJWPOzc10nIyPXAY6WRJ3iLTCeosc-Wy6MNGjJm3kw/s320/P1020943.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I may be alone in that. But really, if you have kids, you should take advantage of their toys when you can. I think the Ancestors enjoyed their "snack" before 3 of them got packed into boxes to be sent to their owners. Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-13239011021225036272011-09-23T13:55:00.000-07:002019-04-03T13:03:34.955-07:00I don't just write. I am multi-talented. And modest.Okay, so apparently I never posted this here. When I first read <i>Ancestor </i>by Scott Sigler (the new version) my son was 2 and I decided it would be fun to make him one of these:<br />
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I actually made one for Scott Sigler too :-) <br />
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If you want one, you can get one! Leave me a comment below and I'll get in touch. :-)<br />
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<br />
My review of <i>Ancestor</i> can be found <a href="http://tenasjarofawesome.blogspot.com/2010/07/my-review-of-ancestor-by-scott-sigler.html">here</a>. I highly recommend it. I actually think it's about time I re-read it.<br />
Now that I'm thinking about it, how fun would it be to make some Triangles? I'll have to do some serious thought on those though, I'm not sure how I'd make them. I could have a whole Sigler menagerie. <br />
<br />Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-69566550734221049832011-09-21T21:04:00.000-07:002011-12-09T14:58:31.303-08:00Hair<i><b>Warning: this story is a horror story and not intended for children. </b></i><br />
<br />
<div class="c0">
The police sergeant crouched over the woman’s lifeless body, sipping at his lukewarm coffee. <span class="c1">Damn</span>, he thought, <span class="c1">another one.</span> Just
like the others: no hair, not even eyebrows or eyelashes. Her eyelids
were a blotchy purple, and it wasn’t makeup. He knew that when the
coroner’s report came back, the cause of death would be suffocation and
there would be no trace of hair remaining anywhere on the body. Maybe
this time they’d find some clue about this killer’s identity or motive.
Unlikely, though. Last time all they’d found was some of Victim Number
Two’s hair in the woman’s mouth and throat, with a few cotton/poly blend
fibers. The women were apparently unconnected, and the sergeant was
getting sick of whatever game this psycho was playing. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
A man
casually strolled past the yellow tape, weaving through the inevitable
gawkers. He smirked inwardly and pulled his fedora down over his eyes a
little further. The chill of the winter day made him less than
conspicuous in his overcoat and hat. He scratched his chin, fingers
searching for any sign of growth. So far he was still clean. Satisfied,
he turned and headed away from the crowd to get his morning coffee. </div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
Laughter
followed Liz onto the street as she stumbled over the curb. She
giggled, steadying herself against the tall man she’d met at the bar.
She found his tobacco and lavender scent arousing and she pulled closer
as they approached his car. She faced him, leaning against the car in a
way that she hoped was seductive but wouldn’t leave her sliding into the
icy mud on the street. He leaned in to kiss her, then suddenly
collapsed, pulling her down with him. Her eyes grew wide and her shriek
was cut short as a damp, chemical soaked cloth was pressed against her
face.</div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
Consciousness came slowly and painfully as sounds dimly filtered through Liz’s mind. <span class="c1">Worst hangover ever</span>,
she thought, in the brief moment before she realized that her hands
were not just asleep, but tied behind her. Her head throbbed as she
craned her neck to look around and her heart rate increased its rhythmic
thudding. She was laying face down on a futon in a sparsely furnished
and completely immaculate room. A hairless man was sitting in an
armchair across from her, sipping coffee. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c0 c3">
</div>
<div class="c0">
“What
do you want with me? Who are you? Where’s John? Where am I?” Her voice
was dry and uneven, and she became aware of a soreness in her scalp. The
man smiled, slowly, like a cat might smile. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
“Tsk, tsk, chérie. No more talking.” He rose and strode toward her. “You need to freshen up.” </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
The
man pulled her to her feet and she realized that she was naked. Her
horrified gasp earned her no sympathy. He led her to a meticulously neat
bathroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror; her hair was
gone. Every blond strand had been plucked by the root, and her scalp was
covered with red blotches. The strange man held a pair of tweezers in
his hand as he reached toward her eye. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
Once
the man was done plucking her eyelashes and eyebrows he’d carefully
gathered every single hair and placed it in a small silver bowl. Liz
watched as he gently added these new acquisitions to a bulging
pillowcase, carefully zipping the top closed afterward. She had seen the
news stories and knew it was only a matter of time before he’d killer
her and leave her hairless, naked body in the street like the others.
She contemplated escape. The window revealed the rooftops of nearby
buildings, so she was too high to try jumping. The room had two doors;
one to the bathroom and a bolted front door off to her right. There was
no phone, therefore no way to call for help. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
By
the time the sky outside had darkened, the man had shaved her arms and
legs with a dry razor, carefully cleaning the blade and collecting the
hairs in his little bowl, emptying it frequently in the pillowcase.
Ignoring her cries of pain he’d plucked each of her pubic hairs and
ripped the hairs from her underarms that had only recently broken the
surface of her skin. He carefully dabbed each spot that she bled with
alcohol, making her wince. Attempting to pull away earned her a hard
slap to the face. Every hair was carefully gathered and added to the
pillowcase. He worked quietly, but maintained a murmured monologue. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
“Filthy, unclean little things. Get them all. She will be clean...get them all.”</div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
Twice,
he left her alone, going into the bathroom and closing the door. When
he came back his skin would look pink and abused, and she guessed he’d
been shaving. During his second absence she made a plan. As soon as he
shut the door behind him for the third time, Liz scrambled to the front
door and started working the bolt with her mouth, hands still tied
behind her. She cut her lips and tasted blood, but was rewarded by a
click as the bolt moved. She turned, grasping the doorknob in her hands,
and as the door opened her brain screamed <span class="c1">FREEDOM</span>.
Liz turned, moving her body into a corridor. A hand roughly pulled her
back and knocked her down. The man stood above her, holding the
pillowcase in his fist. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
“Ah,
chérie. We can’t have you going out and getting dirty again.” His eyes
sparkled as he pressed the heavy sack against her face. Liz struggled
and kicked, flailing desperately. She could smell the shampoo and
perfume of other women as the fabric pressed into her nose. Her lungs
tried to expand without success. She could feel burning weakness in her
chest and limbs as oxygen became scarce. Gradually her struggles slowed,
then ceased altogether. </div>
<div class="c0">
<br /></div>
<div class="c3 c0">
</div>
<div class="c0">
The
next morning the hairless, naked corpse of Victim Number Six was found
in an alleyway between an apartment building and a coffee shop.</div>Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-55642264997122229492011-09-21T20:58:00.000-07:002011-09-21T20:58:14.708-07:00Rejected againWell, that's nice. 3 total submissions, 3 total rejections. My first two rejections were the nicest; the most recent one was rather form-letter-y. I wonder if Pseudopod just got slammed or hired a bunch of slush readers. Oh well. I will be putting Hair up here, because I want to put it <i>somewhere</i> and what's the point of having a writing blog with no actual stories? Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-81876553882675076382011-09-11T11:35:00.000-07:002011-09-11T11:35:23.814-07:0010 YearsI awoke early to get ready for my first day of college at the University of Denver. My roommate was still asleep. The air felt strange and heavy but I thought it was just in my head and tried to ignore it while I showered. I turned on the radio when I got back to my room, to listen as I got dressed. I remember taking my vitamins. The DJ was somber and he was talking about a plane crash. He was talking alongside a broadcast from New York. Screams and cries of utter shock and disbelief erupted as the second plane struck. I woke up my roommate, shaking her gently, telling her <i>I think you should hear this.</i><br />
<br />
Classes were not cancelled.<br />
<br />
Welcome to adulthood.Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-55706749843974353212011-09-09T11:19:00.000-07:002011-09-09T11:19:37.411-07:00I wrote during lunch again today, but I don't know how many words because it's by hand and I am not going to count them. It's 1 full page of lined paper, front and back, and half of another page. Part rambling, then I was suddenly struck by inspiration and started a horror story I'm calling "Egghead" for now, but we'll see if that sticks. Maybe it's not even horror, it might fall into the "speculative fiction" category. I just have to finish it and see where it goes.<br />
<br />
I don't know what my deal is with horror; when I was younger I always (and I mean <i>always</i>) wrote fantasy. The last couple of years all my short stories seem to be horror. Maybe it's because that's more of a challenge for me? I don't know. Maybe my brain is just that messed up inside since having children... Who knows? <br />
<br />
I may start putting whole stories up here, I just don't know yet. I feel like it would be nice to be able to put them out there but at the same time, I don't want to just toss them out here in case it hurts me while trying to submit them places. Oh, and I did submit "Hair" to Pseudopod, I'll update when I hear back about it, but it will probably be in a couple months.Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-75157089045741767672011-09-06T20:07:00.000-07:002011-09-06T20:12:54.186-07:00Rejected.It's okay. They did tell me to submit more in the future, so that's encouraging. Maybe I'll try Pseudopod, though I don't know how frequently they take flash stories. If you have any suggestions of where to submit a flash fiction horror story, please post a comment!<br />
<br />
Submissions to date: 2<br />
Rejections: 2<br />
Acceptances: 0<br />
<br />
ETA: As it turns out, Pseudopod does accept flash stories. I'll try them and search around for other possibilities. <a href="http://pseudopod.org/guidelines/">http://pseudopod.org/guidelines/ </a>Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-87604369312079274252011-09-06T11:41:00.000-07:002011-09-06T11:41:01.643-07:00Progress, and taking myself more seriouslyI realized that I spend too much time wasting my time on games on Facebook. I didn't even play them all weekend and I didn't miss them, so today I deleted them. I plan to use all my "new" free time to work on crafty things and (you guessed it!) writing!<br />
<br />
I also wrote during my lunch today. The Man in White made another appearance, I got about a page written. Should I choose to continue using my lunch break this way, I will need to get better at eating with my left hand so I can write and eat at the same time. Trickier than it sounds.<br />
<br />
No word yet on "Hair" but I wasn't really expecting anything so soon. Otherwise I'm looking forward to reading some more and also hoping my headache goes away soon.Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238069979954401260.post-78309109820640936572011-08-31T20:42:00.000-07:002011-08-31T20:43:15.891-07:00Short story submitted!!I submitted my short story "Hair" to <a href="http://themolotovcocktail.com/">The Molotov Cocktail</a>! We'll see when I hear back from it, but even if it's rejected it means I'm making progress, and there are always other magazines.<br />
<br />
And, of course, thank you to those of you who gave me feedback on it! Tenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17922231337225142653noreply@blogger.com0