Posted in Blog Hops and Fests, fantasy, Kifo Island Chroincles, slices of life, Weekly Features, writing, Writing Sample

The Outline of Her Childhood: #SoCS for April 8, 2017

Why, hey there!

You’re here just in time for a bit of an historic event– this is the first day I’m posting to my blog from my brand-new Lenovo Yoga. It’s smaller and lighter than my first Yoga, which I bought three years ago. That will become my Accomplice’s once I’ve gotten my immense number of files all sorted and/or moved over to this compact but powerful little machine. His current Acer netbook, which doesn’t have a touchscreen, will be perfect for Lise, who doesn’t want one, and mostly will use it to browse the Internet and for the viewing and creation of videos. Of course, that’s another round of clearing and sorting…it’s likely to be closer to the end of the month than the beginning, by the time I’ve got everyone settled in this computer-swap chain.

I love this new machine already. It’s fast! Not only that, but, since it’s an updated version of what I had, it’s taken almost no time at all to adjust to the keyboard, which is nearly identical, with the same amount of space between keys, and a very similar feel (and even a bit more “clack” to their sound, which I honestly kind of love, because it reminds me of my childhood pecking at my father’s old manual typewriter).

Okay, enough of that. We’re here for a reason, after all, and it’s not my rhapsodizing about my new little think box. It’s Saturday, and that means it’s time for Linda G. Hill’s weekly edition of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. It’s been a few weeks since I posted this ultra short piece.  I haven’t even gotten back to answer the comments on that one,..but I will. Really.


Now’s the time when I say thank you to my readers, and try to explain why I’ve been so absent. You see, April is a CampNaNoWriMo month, and I’m current drafting The Last House, a prequel for my Kifo Island series. So, today, I’m going to share a snippet I wrote just yesterday – it’s fresh and rough, and likely bears little resemblance to its eventually revised and polished form, which maybe makes it a perfect #SoCS piece.

This week’s prompt is give/given/giving: begin the post with one of these words, with bonus points for ending with one, as well.

The Outline of Her Childhood

Giving people hell seemed to be a big part of Drea’s personality. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. Tim wanted to understand this tendency in a woman who was so sweet in so many other ways. But he hadn’t lived the kind of life Drea had. Even though his parents weren’t together now, and had never been particularly affectionate with one another, he’d had them both when he was a kid. He’d known that he had one brother and one sister, and that they had the same parents he did. When he thought about “home” and childhood, those thoughts centered on the single house where he’d grown up, and the things they had done: camping, Little League, Scouts, making bad clubs that turned into bad bands when they got a little older. A few scrapes, and scary moments, but nothing major.

No, his real troubles hadn’t started until he was an adult, and got pneumonia for the second time in a year, and landed in the hospital, where a young, pretty respiratory therapist he had a crush on had handed him his nebulizer, and, when he took it from her, noticed the “clubbing” of his fingers – something he’d never really even paid attention to. She said that could happen when the fingertips don’t get enough oxygen for a long period of time, and she recommended he be tested for a disease called cystic fibrosis.

Tim had known almost nothing about the genetic inheritance that had been a part of him since the moment of his conception. It had been slowly killing him ever since, and he hadn’t even known. He’d had a normal, reasonably happy American boyhood, filled with small adventures, the droning of school and homework, and the freedom of long upstate New York summer days with nothing at all to do.

Drea hadn’t had that kind of life. She didn’t talk much about it; all Tim knew was that her mother didn’t even know who her father was; she’d been an addict, and sold herself to anyone who could give her her next fix. At some point, Drea had been removed from her mother’s care, and made a ward of the state. She’d been bounced around from one foster home to another – too many, she said, to keep track of, and she only stayed in touch with two or three that had lasted more than a month or two, and where the people had been decent to her. But every time that happened, she said, her mother would try to get custody back, doing just enough to please the courts, and back to her Drea would go.

That was the outline of her childhood, and Tim didn’t know if she would ever fill in the details, or even if he wanted her to. It was clearly painful; maybe it was better forgotten as much as it ever could be. It was maybe enough to know that she hadn’t had the advantages that he had been given.

And that’s it – a little teaser to pass the time.

If you’d like to wade deeper into the Stream of Consciousness waters, you can find this week’s posts at this link or by clicking the icon above. If you’d like to take a dive into the waters, and post your own stream-of-consciousness piece, the rules are here.


Posted in Blog Hops and Fests, SoCS, Weekly Features, writing, writing prompts, Writing Sample

I’ll Do It Shortly…..#SoCS for March 11, 2017

I’ve had a lifelong habit of practicing the opposite of brevity. My stories, verbal or written, were long. Maybe that’s because the words they were made out of tended to be long, too.

But, as the years I’ve lived grow longer, and I’ve got maybe fewer years ahead than I might like, as my life is filled with dreams and children and ….well, living.

And, in the process, I’m learning how to be brief.

At least sometimes. At least for some things.

Shorter stories. Shorter posts. Sometimes, shorter workouts.

This post, too.

I’m keeping it short, because there’s life to live.

See you all next week, and may the living you do hold more sunlight than shadows.

This very short post is a part of Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday, where this week’s prompt is “short,” used however we want. Find the rules of engagement here, and take a dip in the stream here.

And a very short song, to cap things off.



Posted in Blogfest Entries, Enterprise fan fiction, Flash Fiction Pieces, Just for Fun!, Just Jot it January, Novel Excerpts, Writing in Freedom

“An Honorable Man”: #JusJoJan Day 8

Welcome to Day Eight of Just Jot it January,where, for a month – well, we jot. Whatever. However. Wherever. Whyever. It’s graciously hosted by Linda G.Hill. 

Today’s prompt, “Honorable”, comes to us from Corner of Confessions,  who’d love a visit! Pop on over and say hi, if you’re so inclined.

Context: This story is based upon the Star Trek: Enterprise Season One episode, “Breaking the Ice”. I don’t own them; I just love them. No financial renumeration comes from these stories.

An Honorable Man

“And the most important thing…” Dad had started, the day Trip told him and Mom that he’d been assigned to Enterprise as her Chief Engineer. His blue eyes twinkled, but there was seriousness behind them, too.

“…is to be an honorable man.” Dad had nodded as they said the rest together, the same way they had when Trip left for his Starfleet training, when he decided to skip college, when he graduated high school, left on his first date and his first day of school.

“Be an honorable man, son, and you’ll be able to look other folks in the eye – and you’ll be able to look at that face in the mirror, when no one else is around.”

Trip sighed, and stared at the screen.

He’d let Dad down, today. Let himself down –

But he’d done something worse than that, and that’s what had him chewing his lip while the realization did the same thing to his gut.

He’d let T’Pol down. And she didn’t even know it – would never know it, unless he told her. He could get away with it, just tell the Cap’n that they were wrong, and she wasn’t spying, and maybe, if she was going to be part of this crew, maybe, just maybe, they should stop being suspicious of every tiny little unexpected move she made, and realize that she was a person, and she was as entitled to her Vulcanness as Phlox was his Denobulanness –

Trip read it again – no harm in that, now that the Vulcan cat was out of the bag – and sighed again. She wasn’t going to be part of this crew. He ran the calculations, ballpark style, in his head. Nope. If she was gonna make it home in time for her wedding, she’d have to leave with the Vulcan ship – by the end of tomorrow, at the latest.

Damn. Less than 30 hours, and she’d be gone forever, off to her own world, to live a life without him in it. Less than 30 hours, and he’d never managed to get past the barriers they’d thrown up to prevent getting hurt, back in those first days. Well, at least that’s what he’d done. He couldn’t say for sure about T’Pol – maybe she just didn’t see any logic in getting involved with a human – especially since she was apparently already spoken for.

He scanned the letter again, but it didn’t name her intended husband. Probably no logical reason to – she knew who she was going to marry, after all. It was probably a perfectly logical match; maybe she’d put him through a series of calculations and experiments to be sure of it…

But had she ever pinned him to the floor, straddling him and looking like there was nothing else but being together? Had she ever kissed him, or sent that plasma arc coursing through him when their fingertips touched? Trip still didn’t have a clue what the hell that was, only that it made him feel the way he’d felt when he watched her close her eyes as she swayed softly to Silas’ jazz – and when she’d opened them again, they were deep still blazing pools that damned near pulled him in…

“Cut it out,” he told himself. “Whatever it was, it clearly doesn’t fit into her life plan. It’s not like that should surprise you or anything.” But he thought about sitting with her in the Mess Hall two nights ago. Something had been bothering her, but she’d seemed more open than usual, less walled off behind that immobile Vulcan face.

Was this what she was reading?

Trip leaned back in his chair, letting himself imagine that it was, that she wasn’t thrilled to be going home to marry this guy, that she’d rather stay here on Enterprise, where he was. That maybe, with time, he could show her that there were other choices than getting married –

But that just wasn’t going to happen, at least not outside of his own fantasies, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her about them.

The door opened, and Trip sat up, fast, and cleared the screen even faster. Maybe she was reading his mind, because there she was, her eyes calmly scanning the room until they found him. Damn – if he’d been a little more wrapped up in his imagination, she would have seen the letter and known he was spying on her. It wouldn’t matter that he’d thought, and the Cap’n had thought, that she was spying on them. Trip didn’t need her to tell him that Vulcans were private people and never ever read each other’s mail-

“Commander Tucker – ” She was looking right at him as she started across the deck, but Trip ducked his head, Dad’s voice echoing in his head. “Be an honorable man, son, and you’ll be able to look other folks in the eye – and you’ll be able to look at that face in the mirror, when no one else is around.”

He was damned glad there was no mirror here, but, knowing what he knew, and the way he’d found out about it, made it impossible to meet her eyes. He listened to her report on the latest round of sensor modifications, staring at the datapadd she held rather than looking directly at her.

Helluva way to find out that Dad was right.

And that’s it for me today...find more jottings here!

It just wasn’t Trip’s day, was it? First this, then T’Pol’s letter…

Posted in Just for Fun!, Life Writing, Marketing my Writing, Novel Excerpts, Stream of Consciousness Saturday

“The Seer’s Way”: Foul Deeds Will Rise for SoCS

This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: Use a word ending in ay as the subject/theme. 

I’ve more or less recovered from camping, and the scattered energy that followed those days away. I’m back to a more typical level and type of productivity, if still a bit subdued and distracted. What does that mean?

Well, for one thing, that, in addition to posting, this week I also intend to visit some of you, and share some of my favorite posts on my Facebook Writer Page – kind of my way of apologizing for having more or less disappeared, these last few weeks…

It also means that I’ve gotten back to my fantasy WIP, Foul Deeds Will Rise, (Trueborn Weft #2), with an aim to finish the rough draft by the end of the month so that I can move on to Other Things. So, this week I used the prompt to write another few hundred words of the story.

We join Shentaa in dire circumstances, considering how she got into this mess…and almost certain sure that there’s no way out…

Photo and Zentangle art by Shan Jeniah Burton.

The Seer’s Way

It was the Seer’s Way.

Shentaa had known it, with her mother’s milk – nay, long before that. Truth, she had taken the knowing of it with her mother’s blood, and her breath, even before she first filled her own lungs to cry out lustily into the air of the Seer’s Keep.

It was the Seer’s Way.

‘Interfere not with what is dreamed, when what is dreamed is truth. It matters not what cost you may pay; none could overmatch that of attempting to undo that which must be.’

There were many ways of phrasing it. It was the subject of song, of dance, of writing and art, among her family, and the others she knew of who carried Seers’ Lines.

There was no undoing such a dream. It would come to be; it was, as the Tacivaarii were so fond of saying, as sima garo provided. There could be no unweaving the warp and weft of it, and any Hunt that made such a thing its prey was like as not to only bind the threads of it more tightly about the shuttle.

And yet, she had set aside the Seer’s Way, without a thought, to come to the child she had raised, who was a child no more. She had told herself that the dream meant something other than it had – something other than simply a clue; something she was to learn more of, mayhap, but not to weave herself into.

She was well woven into it now. It might be that she would be woven into it, into this blue stone, for all of time, now.

Had any ever scaped the Jeweled Walk?

None of her kin, nor the false Kai’s, of a certain. Here they were, all embedded with her – she’d felt herself whooshing past them – all the Seer-women who had held to the Way, and still ended here, where they had known they must.

Only she had tried to betray that knowing, to do something to undo what she had seen in the true dreaming.

She had broken the Seer’s Way, and, though she was was not a Seer, now she would pay.

Now, and mayhap forever….

How exactly did Shentaa betray the Seer’s Way?

What happened to her?

Will she be able to escape?

Did she stop the true dream from being fulfilled?

Is that possible?

Have you tried stream-of consciousness writing? Come join in – there’s just a few simple rules. Check out the brand-new #SoCS hashtag, or Get more SoCS right here! 

It’s more than slightly possible that this song, and the video, which were popular in my teen years, inspired this passage, and the rest of the scene, too…

Posted in Blogfest Entries, Challenges and Contests, Just for Fun!, Stream of Consciousness Saturday, Writing Samples

“Only for a Thirtygrain”: Foul Deeds Will Rise (Trueborn Weft Series #2) for SoCS

And the stream of consciousness flows…Badge by Doobster @Mindful Digressions.

This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: vis.”  Use a word, or tie your post’s theme around a word, that contains the letters VIS, in that order.

Today is a rather emotional day for me, for reasons that will appear in my next post…so I’m just going to jump into this, somewhat clumsily…

Last week, I shared the opening paragraphs of Scene Thirteen of Foul Deeds Will Rise, draft #1. This week, I give you the closing paragraphs of Scene Twenty-One. No specific details on what’s going on, here, because Spoilers, but I think this sums up the connection between these sisters nicely…

Only for a Thirtygrain”

“Leave me for a thirtygrain, Aliaan,” she said.

“Leave you, Kaivaara?” The eldest turned to regard her closely, obvious though she mayhap thought it subtle. “When you are ill?”

“Only for a thirtygrain – less if I ring. I wish to make a note to be carried to Shentaa, and it’s forbidden for Untribed to see our writing.” She settled back into the chair, lifted the tea, and sipped. Not too much, at once, until she’d done what was needed; after that, she would trust in the woman who had given over so much of her living to her care.

“Are you certain sure, my Kai?” A lacing of fear, in her scent, and her gaze darted first to the tea, and then to the cupboard where the washbasin rested. It was just slightly ajar, and her focus traveled to the upper portion of the crack. Vaara stared into her drinking bowl, so that it would look like she noticed nothing. She chanced a single small swallow, and, at once, she felt something – shift – within her, some variable she didn’t yet understand.

“I will be well enough, eldest. And I am the Kai. Go, now, and let me tend to this, and then you will see me washed and ready for the rest of the hearing. A thirtygrain, mind, and no less unless I ring for you.” She attempted to keep her voice docile, so that the other wouldn’t suspect that she was able to consider.

Aliaan looked from her to the cupboard, and then back, thrice, swiftly. Certain sure, whatever it be that she wanted not Vaara to see was there, and it had bearing on her being alone, or mayhap being as the eldest would have her.

In a fivebreath, though, she was gone, and Vaara waited another tenbreath to be certain sure of it – a fiftybreath would carry a lower statistical risk, but she dared not indulge the time…she left the chair and opened the door, and there was a bottle bearing a scent that matched a trace note in the tea. Vaara spent a threebreath in setting to mind the exact position of this bottle among the jumbled linens and soaps and the bits and pieces these Untribed seemed to find so important. She held to the looking, then closed her eyes and tried to bring forth the vision of what she had seen, before she opened them again.

She did this, again and again, until she held a perfect image. And then she went, haltingly, on legs that felt as though they hadn’t been moved in a threeday, to the table where she kept her drawing supplies, and sketched the cupboard and what was within as quickly as she was able, making certain that the bottle was visibly the focal point.

She glanced at the timing-glass. Five grains near gone; so she would hasten. She took up the bottle, which was of the type of common pure clay Healers used, and scented it again, tipping it this way and that to feel and hear the way the fluid within moved within its confines – and she had again a vision of that chamber where she had grown, trapped and forgotten, save for Shentaa and Herself. Or this one – was the eldest trapping her just as surely, here, in the Kai’s Chambers?

Vaara lifted the stopper, and the liquid’s aroma rose to her, edged sharply in danger-scent. She peered inside, but it was too dark. She tipped the bottle again, and a viscous, sweet-deadly syrup reached the lip. She stared at this for a moment, and then, in a moment of inspiration such as accompanied the best of Hunts, she took up her glass stylus and dipped it into the bottle. She had twenty grains to finish, and there was not time to waste.

Why is Vaara behaving so strangely?

What’s in the bottle?

Who is Aliaan, and what does she know?

Will Vaara run out of time?

I’ve got over 60,000 words drafted, now….

I’m pretty sure I’ll finish, but when?

Come back next week, when I may or may not answer some, all, or none, of these questions!

Have you tried stream-of consciousness writing? Come join in there’s just a few simple rules. Check out the brand-new #SoCS hashtag, or

Get more SoCS right here!

Let this be your portal!
Posted in Blogfest Entries, Just for Fun!, Life Writing, Stream of Consciousness Saturday, Writing in Freedom

Kaiidth: An Exploration of What Is for SoCS

Rowing down the stream of consciousness. Badge by Doobster @Mindful Dirgressions.

This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: beginning with the word “is. There’s bonus points for ending with ‘is’, as well, which I did.  I used the word in several ways in this free-written passage that reflects on a project that isn’t going exactly the way I thought it should, or at the pace I’d like it to…and delves a bit into Vulcan philosopy, too. 

Is this the post I planned to write today?

No, it isn’t. Honestly, I was hoping to be able to share an excerpt from my new fantasy novel-in progress, Foul Deeds Will Rise. The problem is that I don’t have an excerpt to share; not yet.

Why not?

Well, it’s that Life thing…

  • I decided to plot the novel using a method I’ve never tried before – The Snowflake Method.
  • I took longer to finish my previous drafting project, the second in my Kifo Island Chronicles series.
  • I had homeschooling paperwork in abundance to get through, and the kids and I spent four eventful days last month visiting our dear friends in Central New Jersey…

So, as a result, I’m still, four days into the month, plotting the novel.

I do hope to be done with that before my local NaNoWriMo group  write-in tomorrow night, and I’m sure that the novel will benefit from the new system, especially in the way I’m combining with elements from Rock Your Plot, the method that I’ve been using for the last two years. Each has definite advantages, but, as with learning anything new, there’s more than a little fumbling around as I work out the kinks…

I can feel the story taking shape, in a more cohesive fashion than it would if I were using Rock Your Plot by itself. The Snowflake Method alternates between character and plot development, and from a single sentence to a four-page synopsis, so, where RYP brings me to the scene list with separate character arcs for each character, and a puzzle to solve in order to fit them together into a cohesive whole, TSM brings me to this point with a synopsis that includes all of the framework to break out scenes that are already fit together.

It makes a difference that is a little hard to articulate, but which I can feel, in the way the story is starting to breathe its own life. It’s exciting, to be nearing the point where I can start writing, and to have such a clear sense of the story’s shape and scope. Even more exciting, TSM advocates backtracking through all preceding steps each time I complete one, so the story is getting stronger and stronger as I move through these final phases of plotting –

I can’t wait to see what emerges, and how the writing proceeds, once I actually start drafting.

And, in the meantime, I think of the Vulcans. Yes, I do do that a lot – but, honestly, it is only logical since the Vulcans are so very very cool…especially under pressure.

A Vulcan would say, “Kaiidth” – a word whose closest English translation is the concept, “What is, is.

Have you tried stream-of consciousness writing? Come join in – there’s just a few simple rules. Check out the brand-new #SoCS hashtag, or get more SoCS right here!

Let this be your portal!
Posted in Blogfest Entries, Challenges and Contests, JuNoWriMo, Just for Fun!, Life Writing, Novel Excerpts, Sexuality and Erotica, Stream of Consciousness Saturday

Something to Say: Kifo Island Chronicles for SoCS

Writing my way down the Stream of Consciousness! Badge by Doobster @Mindful Digressions.

This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: the words “some/sum”, one or both, as they are, as prefixes, or suffixes – whatever

I used both words (bolded for your reading pleasure), in several ways (but not as suffixes), in this free-written snippet from my current novel-in-progress, Generations: Kifo Island Chronicles #2.

Gladys has been hospitalized, and, while recovering, encounters another patient – Terrance Acosta, who interrupted the wedding reception in last week’s SoCS post, “Like a Fork Screeching on Bone China”. He’s more charming when he’s sober, as it turns out, but still prone to sudden flashes of revelation…

Something to Say

“You were at – at the wedding,” said the tall man with salt-and-pepper hair. “I remember you, sitting there all alone, watching – “ He ducked his head, seeming, suddenly, like a very small boy -like Howard, those few times when he’d actually been sorry for the things he did. “Watching, while I made the biggest ass in the universe of myself.”

“I’m quite certain there have been far bigger asses.” Gladys wheeled the chair closer; he looked like he needed company, and maybe absolution, and she needed a purpose. “And I’ve lived long enough to tell you some stories that would make your moment of assiness feel very tame, by comparison – moments fueled by a lot less, in the way of anguish, than learning that your spouse wanted to be with someone else -”

The man stuck out a hand, weakly. Gladys wasn’t much stronger as she took it, and the man sketched something that would certainly have been a bow, if he were healthy. His hand, though, was strong, and callused in a way that said plainly that those hands had once been integral to his work. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced, although I’ve seen you out and about with that little bird of a girl. My name’s Terrance Acosta – Barry Kelmore’s husband, at least on the record.”

“Gladys Marietta -”

“Damn,” the man breathed softly, and it turned into a light cough. “I thought you looked familiar – like someone I’d seen a long time ago. You were the stuff of an embarrassing number of my youthful fantasies, ma’am.” He looked at the hand that still held hers, and then his eyes lifted to her study her face. There was humor there, as irrepressible as life. “Maybe I shouldn’t be touching you with this hand, considering -”

“There’s nothing new under the sun, Mr. Acosta.” She remembered saying the same thing to Barry and Corinne, that first time she’d seen them together. “And you can call me Gladys. My movie star days are long and happily behind me, and it’s been far too long since I’ve danced.”

“Well, that can be arranged, if you’d like. Terrance was a lovely dancer, or so he tells me.” Another man strode into the room, to the other side of Terrance’s chair, and leaned in to kiss him with obvious passion. The hand that had held Glady’s slipped away, reaching up to cradle the face of the newcomer.

When they broke away, Terrance sighed happily, then said, “Sometimes, the most beautiful things can come of the most catastrophic choices. If not for my hedonistic weeks, and that revelation -wait – I just thought of something – I need to speak to the authorities. Right away!”

The outburst brought on another fit of coughing; it seemed to intensify rather than fading out. “Here, sip some water – slowly.”

Gladys watched, and considered. She thought of the man who’d fought his illness and what was clearly a miasma of drugs – the sum total of whatever his ‘hedonistic weeks’ had contained – to make his statement, and his stand, for his marriage. Yes, he’d been wrong, but people sometimes were, and the conviction to do it said that he wasn’t going to give in now, either. He had something to say, and he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from saying it.

“No- time – get them -”

“I’ve already pressed the call button, Mr. Acosta. Please relax, and breathe.”

“Miss Marietta makes good sense. Please, Terrance; don’t exhaust yourself. We have so much left to live together, and so little time left to share it. Have some water – it will help.”

Gladys retreated a little, to the bank of plantings that surrounded the windows, which were screened in, and ran nearly from floor to ceiling, reminding her of the screened-in porch at her own grandmother’s house, where she had often spent her days in play, dancing with her ragdolls- did children even have ragdolls anymore? – reading, and watching old dance movies on television- no, television they didn’t have, anymore, she was sure of that one…she smiled to herself, the mens’ conversation, murmured and soothing, like the sounds of the evening birds, or the morning ones, when she fell asleep out here…she sank into the memories, as though she were only a girl again, and this the sum of her reality…

“All right, sir – if you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to read over a summary of your statement, to be sure that we’ve recorded all the salient points, before we go any further with our investigation.”

“Sure thing, Officer. I’m not going anywhere, and I want the bastard who did this to be caught, before he does it again.”

What did Terrance remember?

Will ‘the bastard who did this’ be caught?

Will Gladys learn what all this is about?

This is all there is, until I write something more, so I’m going to leave it to your imaginations, which I’m sure are awesome!

Have you tried stream-of consciousness writing?

Come join in – there’s just a few simple rules.

Get more SoCS right here!

Let this icon be your gateway!