Not for Girls

Fridays at the cyber-home of the Hedgewitch are unruly. All right, so that is a bit of a lie. In truth, they are filled with poetry and prose (55 words) ruled by none but the wild muses and wilder wants of the writers birthing them. Since my muse and I adore freedom-kissed tales with words in them, we wrote one.
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“Not for Girls”

“The eyeballs are the windows to the brain,” she said.

Science and conviction weren’t made for girls, I thought. “You’re wrong, dearie, they are the windows to the soul.”

She shrugged. “I went through the eyes, touched the back of his skull, ran into plenty of yuck and bits of brain, sir, but no soul.”

.

Be Terribly Good in My Story, or fall

He’s witty, attractive, energetic, and just the right amount of insane. When we first met, somewhere between “Becoming Sweettooth” and “The Darker Fringes”, I was certain that my story couldn’t happen without him.

Alas (don’t you just love saying “alas” aloud and then sighing?). Anyhoo, I was wrong…

…still, letting him go pains me deeply.

He is quite the wonder at the (not always appreciated) art of torturing others while grinning sweetly. But not terribly useful in the tale that birthed him. And goodness knows that no story can survive the effects of a useless character (regardless of how gifted said character might be at making others scream in ear-catching ways).

I am going to put him (and his, um… tools) in a virtual box. Nicely locked. Mayhap, one day, I’ll think up a dark, bloody (and properly maniacal) love story just for him.


see the complete blackout here

The Pretty Corpses of Flowers

I was about to post a rant about some woman who wanted to sell posters of one of my blackouts… without paying me. But as I reread what I wrote, my blood began to boil… So, I deleted the whole thing, and opened my “Awesome Things My Love Says” folder.

My sexy Piano Man has a way with words that reach my heart and my funny bone. The other day, he texted me after a show, to say, “Warning! I’m bringing home some flower corpses.” He knows I don’t much care for flowers that have been cut just for decoration, and he also knows that if the poor things were already mutilated, I wouldn’t want their sacrifice to be for nothing. I do my best to find a way to show them some love.

It was a big bouquet. Some of the flowers are still drying. But the roses, carnations, and some greenery and fillers (whose name I don’t know), have dried quite prettily.

I used a rose petal on this stitched poem. Some of the outer petals I offered to the moon, now sit by my typewriter in view of the window. I put together a bouquet I can glimpse while I’m writing. The leaves and other greenery went in a jar until the muse thinks of something. The fillers are in a wee bowl, in front of a sculpture of Old Man Death (you know how much the grinning Reaper loves his flowers).

By the time I was done, I was grinning as toothily as… well, as toothily as me. Playing with nature (even mildly dead nature) is good therapy, picturing the bloody things my muse thinks should happen to those who want to steal our mind-babies… not so much.