May Monster Madness

My little bloodied red dress is ready. I’m accessorizing it with a hammer, an ax, and perhaps an onyx dagger with a chic rubied handle. Onyx and rubies are all the rage at monster blog parties these days. And when it comes to monstrous partying, nothing tops May Monster Madness.

Don’t worry if you feel like you have nothing to wear (or if you need more time to sharpen your accessories), for the party doesn’t start until Saturday, May 28th, 2016. I really hope to see you there. You don’t have to be a monster to attend the festivities. In fact, you don’t even have to like monsters (although, if your dislike of monsters is known… you might want to make your bling extra sharp and extra pointy). Wondering how to participate in the yum, my Luvs? It’s easy:

You can write (fiction, poetry, monstrous articles), you can paint, craft, sculpt… you can tell us about the little monsters that haunt or beautify your garden, your closet, your mind… Like the delightful mistress of Little Gothic Horrors says in the main party post, for this summer soirée, you can explore “Whatever interests you, as long as it is monster-y in some way!” Yep, you can go for mythological creatures, fairy tale monsters, hilarious monsters, lovable monsters that creep and crawl, hateable human monsters that make your skin crawl, cute monstrous kids…

By the way, earlier this month, a friend *waves at Winter Moon* shared a page from John Kenn Mortensen’s Sticky Monsters. I, as you can probably imagine, fell completely in love with the creepy wee creatures. So… I decided to base my May Monster Madness contribution on one of Señor Mortensen’s creations. But… I haven’t been able to pick just one. Would you like to help me choose? If so, let me know if you would like me to write about the 1st, 2nd or 3rd illustration. If you’re feeling particularly motivated, I would love to know the why behind your suggestion.

1. Now, that’s what I call a sprouting nose…
Sticky Monsters, by John Kenn Mortensen (1)

2. His nightshirt would make fabulous Halloween curtains…
Sticky Monsters, by John Kenn Mortensen (2)

3. They practically bent over backwards for her…
Sticky Monsters, by John Kenn Mortensen (3)

Visit Little Gothic Horrors for specific details. And while you’re there… why not join in? 😉
May Monster Madness, 2016

Party!

Coffee Scented Memories

My first memory is made of coffee, fresh grass, and my father’s laughter. It happened when I was still in diapers, so I’ve often wondered if the memory is truly mine, or if it’s a story-told gift.

In those days, the sun was always up before I was. My mornings started with a giant hand slipping a bottle of linden tea under the mosquito net. Never milk, I hated milk, still despise it.

“Coffee,” I would say to my mother, after waddling into the kitchen.

“We need to brush your teeth first.”

“No.” I had nothing against hygiene, but the taste of toothpaste disgusted me. “Coffee!”

“Only if you brush your teeth.”

According to my mother, my wailing over the injustice of having to brush my teeth could be heard all the way to the moon. I’ve never believed her. You see, I’ve a great set of lungs (asthma be damned!). I’m sure that if I put my heart into it, even Pluto had to cover its dwarf ears.

The agony caused by losing another battle against tooth brushing torture would only last until my mother put a huge tin mug of cold coffee in my hands. I would hold the mug tight against my chest, and probably give her a nasty look, before walking out of the backdoor to find my father.

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I had been the bringer of coffee for long enough that my feet knew exactly where to take me. Still, the journey was a perilous one. I had to dodge tall grasses and nosy chickens, and fight wicked cowboys who always did their best to try to take my father’s coffee from me. I kicked them and bit them, and if my father’s best friend is to be believed, I even shrieked some of my first unintelligible curses their way.

My father waited under the same tree, an old hat covering his face, his snores shaking the world and making me giggle. If I didn’t bring him his morning coffee, he would never wake up.

“Coffee, Papi!” I would say, poking his belly and handing over the mug.

He would sit me on his lap, saying, “That’s my little warrior,” making a big show of yawning, and pretending to sip from the cup (even when I had spilt most of the coffee all over myself).

The cowboys who worked with my father would come to tell him all about how they had fought me and I had beaten them. My father would laugh. They would pretend to be upset. And I would probably grin like a lunatic, my toddler thoughts high on coffee fumes and future battle plans..

Tin Coffee Mugvia