a binding agreement

happy new year...
this year you'll get posts about my new book that will be published.......

a very old wizard (hey j.k. rowling i beat you to it, we all know nicholas flamel is santa......don't you?)

a very old wizard

in the northernmost polar region a castle of warmth and enchantments is nestled.  in it resides a wizard known to some, but not all.  his name is a limerick, a memory, a spell and is summoned by a thousand tongues. 

he lives not alone, for a women it's told, she bakes for the wizard while his magic unfolds.  this witch of a woman has many spells of her own and summons his love with puddings and gingerbread.  their children all clad quite the same, pointed ears and a language unknown. 

these magical folk, labor in unparalleled time, so the ordinary can grasp something real.  the young and the old, it is said of those who believe will rise from their beds, and a gift from him lay await one day of each year.  a day where grief and horror is pushed back by cheer. 

the old wizard is steadfast despite his old age, and a flash of the red of his cloak goes unnoticed as greed filled dreams cloud minds of the receivers when it comes to his good deeds.  

but guilt will go unrequited, for he returns each year, it is the price he must pay for immortality.  if  kindness is something you wish to give in return, a simple gesture, nothing absurd, a beverage of something pleasing to most, a thank you baked in a cake and frosted with pleasantries.  whether imagined or welcomed, hitched to reindeer or traveling by flue, this wizened wizard of sorts has something for you. 

untitled.....

as the rain from the spout washed all the cluttering thoughts away....like faux blood swirling down the drain......

it rained clarity ....and all my instructions were not previously received so i can one day reverberate to those willing to be deceived.....

if my pen does not embellish and my mind goes without a numbered page.....may the day turn to ash and the night forever reign ..

C.C. Lewia bio page

Alana of the East and the Shadow Beast by C.C. Lewia

Published July 23, 2013 by Createspace ISBN: 9781491005194 (paperback edition)

                                                                 ASIN: B00EMI9WH8 (kindle edition)

Createspace link to purchase: https://www.createspace.com/pub/simplesitesearch.search.do?sitesearch_query=alana+of+the+east+and+the+shadow+beast&sitesearch_type=STORE

Amazon link to purchase:

http://www.amazon.com/Alana-East-Shadow-Beast-Lewia/dp/149100519X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1413466348&sr=8-1&keywords=alana+of+the+east

Water and land gods clash while uncommon people suffer and prevail in this story with a female character at the helm.

Alana is a strong female character that overcomes many hardships and stays the course for being brave and enduring evils to make the world a better place.  She shows compassion for those that are her foes and holds nature in high respect.  She is a skilled leader and people follow her because she is their chosen leader.  Sword play and archery are just accessories for this character who rides through the world dragon back in the direction of her future, which she does not fear.  

C.C. Lewia has a passion for storytelling and she herself is a strong female character.  Her first book Alana of the East and the Shadow Beast is an accomplishment and the first in her writing career.  Her writing career will blossom with each year that passes; she does not confine herself to one genre of storytelling and has many stories to tell, all which will reverberate from her voice. 

Follow C.C. Lewia on Twitter @cclewia

And read her blog here: http://cclewia.blogspot.com/

the crowded classroom....

in a kindergarten class with 28 students....a child tells the teacher 'someone hit me'...

teacher replies 'I don't care!'

meat eating herbivore...and more...

Herbivore

He reaches into the cold refrigerator and pulls out the pan fried dumplings….

Placing the chilled meat wrapped in a soggy blanket of wrinkled dough on the kitchen table he then returns to the refrigerator to beckon the soy sauce. 

Chopsticks in mouth and wrists on the table, he pulls up his sleeves revealing his inked bracelet that reads herbivore.  The lid pops and the first dumpling is then eloquently picked up between the two bamboo attackers and dipped into the sauce container then placed immediately into the mouth of the herbivore, or mislabeled herbivore.  Then the second and so on until the last has been devoured….

She walks into a hotel room wearing a wedding ring and is accessorized by a man that isn't her husband.  The door closes as they embrace and his hand lifts her blouse gently up her back revealing her monogamous tattoo…….

Youth walks into a tattoo parlor looking for something that will distinguish him from everyone else, a uniqueness perhaps or a label, disappointed he leaves as the door closes behind him and the sign that reads we only ink the letters 'hypocrite' so don't ask for anything else shouts a silent goodbye.

i just called a woman 'fat' with the best intentions i swear......

'Happy Birthday Jerk'

 

Dear sir or madam, either which I care not, for your 9.99 purchase affects me in the least.  

I do and did apologize that said purchase, the harry potter shirt, did not fit the intended recipient, your fat sister.  How cruel I am to say such a thing, but I am rather kind as you were rude and most likely lying about this claim, people often do, to 'pull one over' on the seller and receive free items.  But if indeed the 'I speak parseltongue' shirt size 2X did not fit 'your sister' and you do not care that I own one as well and have had a swim or two in it, noting its rather largeness, I can only offer you advice and nothing else.  The shirt is from hot topic, the franchised store that attempts to represent the cool or punk individual, yes just re-read that if you will please.  Don't understand, I certainly didn't expect you to.  You will not ship it back to me for a refund, because ironically shipping is too expensive, but only on your end, and you work at the post office.  Excuse me I'm having a good laugh here.  Alright I've managed to lift myself off the floor to continue, which reminds me of your fat sister......the one the shirt doesn't fit……your campaign sir or madam should be aimed at the fashion industry, else how dare you expect your fat sister to fit into a trendy t-shirt designed for smaller stature figures.  Any who you have a great cause set before you, and I implore you to crush the fashion industry with the weight of your fat sister, who may indeed speak parseltongue but will not be able to boast about it while wearing a t-shirt.  I will do my best to steer clear of any other buyers in the future who wish for me to enclose a note of 'happy birthday jerk' along with the item being sent to a different address per the buyer's request.  As for your niece who is supposedly wearing the shirt because it fits wonderfully, I am pleased someone will enjoy it.  And your blatant tone of 'now my sister has nothing for her birthday!' might I suggest you spend another $10 on her, she is your sister after all.  Like I said in a previous reply we are all worm fodder, thank you for reminding me, and how truly little your problems are in this great big world. 

In the words of Bilbo Baggins, 'I say good day to you sir!' or madam……

because i wrote it and because i promised to post in entirety here is the entire short story....if you will....

Giselle's Diary

My own little nook

I'm standing in the most beautiful spot of what is left of Nook Farm, I'm transported.  The year is 1874 and it's a warm spring day and I see Mark coming towards me.  And as he passes through me he silently accuses me of being the apparition in this scenario.  Stupid I was to think he was approaching me, it was Harriet's house he was headed into and I turn to look at the back of his head as he steps onto her porch and proceeds into her house without looking back to notice me and the vaporous hole he caused in my midsection, or my entire being, I struggle to gain my substance once again.  It appears that Mr. Twain cannot hear the ruckus across the street either.  A man named Jack yelling to someone else or someone calling out for a person named Jack, none of this matters and present day and nothingness jettisons me back into the now.  But I recall the moment when the flowers were tall enough to block out modernization and Jack yelling, despite the crowded route back to the highway and how it saddens and angers me and reaches into my voice box to pull out vulgarities, because I don't know if I'll ever return to see the homes that once housed greatness. 

"Giselle" my husband shouts as he honks the car horn in the most annoying manner.  "What does he want?" is all I'm thinking, it's all I ever think when I hear the echoing call of "Giselle" as if it is a summons of nothingness, such as his calling for air to fill his lungs, presuming that I too shall be an involuntary party of his own personal account.  I'm busy; planning, plotting and worrying about absolutely nothing, as per usual, which requires an immeasurable amount of solitude.  That man really should have married a gazelle instead of me.  Yes, a doe eyed beast, unplagued by thoughts, instead he married me and offered me a lifetime of distractions from solitude and quiet thinking.  I wonder how they accomplished so many things, the writers who once lived at Nook Farm.  They had just as many children and more than I do, as well as spouses, dogs, cats, visitors who called on them often and the occasional interruption of death.   What did they think about all the distractions as they wrote, did they yell and scream too, in an attempt to profess their longings and find hope that value would be bestowed upon their documented thoughts and ideas.  Maybe I should try a quill pen, as if that would help, the truth is I just don't have the exception, or rather talent, well not in this current year but maybe I would have then.  But I do find that I'm not lacking at all in the narcissism that occasionally goes along with the knack for writing, else why would I persist.  I should just go scrub the toilet, perhaps my time would be better spent, I could reflect in dark image of myself at the bottom of the bowl and convince myself that I am just a shadow caster.  Perhaps I could tune into a television show that would completely numb my thoughts for a while, just until the looming dinner hour approaches as it does each and every day, and like a servant summoned by an aggravated bell I shall answer the call of that exclamatory nuisance.  Perhaps being ordinary isn't so bad, I've often tried it, with an enormous amount of difficulty, but I have managed to assimilate on the rare occasion nodding my head along and encouraging the conundrum of appropriate responses, but in that looming moment, the magical, transforming Nook Farm moment, and other moments in the strangest of ordinary places, I feel life as it should be and a welcoming home feeling embraces me as I am wrapped in happiness and have a strong desire to never leave.

Giselle the dead gazelle

It's time for the back to school carnival; along with an array of pleasantries that I find well frankly unpleasant.  'How do you do,' that's it, I should have tried a nontraditional greeting when I greeted the fellow ptg members.  I wonder how they would have reacted to a 'How do you do,' or perhaps, an ''I'd like to own half that dog," oh my, that would have confused the hell out them.  Instead it was weather talk all the while as school aged children screamed and ran about with their faces painted and wearing balloon hats, hiding the annoying little creatures they tend to be.  The most exciting part was when the janitor came and attached the hose to the valve producing that squealing turning of metal on metal sound, because a diaper less three year old had an accident on the slide, producing a skid mark about seventeen feet long.  Well the line for the slide was short after that, but our 'make an appearance' time was satisfied.  We maneuvered through the parking lot which resembled an intricate maze only a gazelle could gallop through unscathed.  My husband muttered something about skilled drivers, and "who parked like that?"  then he said as if he unraveled a great mystery while reading a political bumper sticker on the same car, "a republican, figures." laughing I replied, "didn't we decide to vote republican this year?" he put his hand on the back of my arm as if to lead me towards our car, because some men still think woman need a push in the right direction, or he really believes I am a gazelle that cannot walk accordingly, perhaps he thinks he's being chivalrous in this manner, but I always respond by pushing his arm away from me, and depress the urge to strike him.  Like I said he should have married a gazelle, any ways he found a reply to the republican debate, "so we can park like that too I suppose."  I said, "Sounds good to me, front row, and entitlement with little or no regard to parking violations, perfect."  Then I saw it, and rushed the girls by, but it was too late, the little one let out an "Oh my god" and her two sisters immediately said "what" and "Oh that's so gross."  My eleven year old said I'm going to puke and did.  I found a tissue in my pocket, I gave it to her to wipe her mouth, she wiped her mouth and handed the tissue back to me, "here take this."  The smell introduced itself after our eyes had been delighted enough, the senses must all take turns in this manner. I was assured all the other carnival freaks would be unaware of the mangled mess in the dark as they departed from the fun for the evening, aside from that most of them are oblivious to horror and death, which showed up just to entertain my family.  The dead creature that was unfortunate enough to be imposed upon by a republican tire, not only lost its life, 'the snake that no longer slithers,' that's what we called it, and its last meal that had been ripped from its belly by the tire tread, and I can confirm that no one should have to gaze upon a half digested rat, but we of course were lucky enough to be blessed by that sight.  It wasn't a typical lesson in death and nature, but we managed to get passed it quickly.  And "gross" was what we all agreed.  We did not feel inclined to bury the mangled snake rat duo like the baby rabbits in the yard that met death in the mouth of one of the dogs.  The republican tire murder case was not followed by a funeral, names of the deceased were not etched into rocks and placed over two graves, ironically both of the same size and shape and there wasn't an array of sympathy to go along with the snake's passing, but we later joked that the rat was more upset about what had happened than us. 

Waxing where the sun doesn't shine

It's official the kids are back at school and I have a few moments to myself these days.  Today I decided to us my personal laser.  I can recall only one man in history who has ever mentioned facial hair on women in a positive light.  It was Marky Mark, who wasn't really a man when he said it.  My grandmother once said something about hairy women and that it held a special meaning, she said that about a lot of things, things like body hair and stepping in dog crap, but back to the hair on hand, or face or wherever really.  She said hairy women are bound to become successful, but later in life.  I wish I could laugh while I'm using my laser as I gaze into the bathroom mirror at my reflection thinking about what my grandmother used to say, but the pain free product, that delivers hair free beauty is anything but pain free.  "Ouch," it's as if a tiny ant is crawling across my face and when I press the trigger that ant takes out his tiny little ant knife and repeatedly stabs my unwanted hair growth areas.  This is not my favorite pass time, but I can't complain too much, because I'm happy with the results I'm receiving, for instance ridding myself of a mustache that resembles Mark Twain's.

On this particular day, I have also decided to give myself, well what I would consider a Brazilian wax, since it's now September and bathing suit season has passed, I know, and keep in mind I've never had one done professionally and don't even know the precise meaning of the subject.  So I get the box of wax strips, and warm them between my hands then place them on the desired hair free region, let's just call that zone the 'South Pole.'  Now I'm a novice at this so next time, if ever there shall be one, I may visit the shed and grab a few gardening tools first, because maybe, although I don't know because I can't really see what's going on, a little trimming should take place before the wax strips are laid down to destroy my flesh.  Once again "Ouch" I'd rate the experience about thirty percent successful, I'm now off to a ptg meeting and need to put on an extra pair of underwear, because the 'South Pole' is freezing and I feel utterly naked.  I've also called and cancelled my afternoon yoga appointment, because I've done all the bending and twisting I'm going to do this day and 'downward hair free dog' seems like an entire workout, when I've held the position for so long.  While I drive to school I decide to become an advocate for naturalism, and never worry again about being hair free.  At least I'll always be a firm believer of evolution this way. 

Caught in a net

At 4:15 I grabbed the box of sugar cookies and headed to the middle school, the first thing I said when she got into the car was, "I forgot to put them in your backpack, so I brought them here.  How did it go?"  I was asking about volley ball tryouts as she got in the back seat and opened the box of cookies.  "Not too good," she replied.  "Oh no, I said, at least you tried, was it fun?" "It was until I ran into the net and my ponytail got caught."  "Holy mackerel," I thought, well because you know mackerel is a fish and fish, never mind.  "Did you get hurt?" is what I said out loud, but planned on making mention of the mackerel reference another time.  "No, but they had to cut part of the net and a piece of my hair."  She showed me her hair; I didn't really notice a difference, but thought," shark attack while trapped in the net."  "Well if you don't make the team at least you will be remembered."  "Oh right, the dork that got stuck in the net, I'll be legendary," she replied.  I just keep thinking, "This would be great in a story."  "Are you going to practice with me when we get home?"  All she ever wants to do is practice and now tryouts are done and she wants to practice some more.  Man I'm proud of this kid, I wish the coach and everyone else could validate her determination and dedication.  "Sure," I said after you do your homework.  "Lame," she replied, this time I said it out loud, "well if I'm lame then how can I practice, because lame indicates that I'm hurt or not functioning properly."  "Shut up, dork" and I replied to her, "I love you too, dork Jr." 

Smashing pumpkins

As the death of summer approaches, I find I cannot cope because that is the final stage of acceptance, I'm still in denial.  Yes school has started, wonderful, because nothing can end until it begins.  and that is my usual pace, let's get through this, look back and reflect, I realize there are a lot of moments that need to played out slowly, like a concerto, to be fully enjoyed, but school years are best if they pass quickly,  I tend to think.  Mind you the youngest is in first grade so there needs to be a lot of passing before we can reflect about it, but now that the biggest of the bunch is in middle school, the coup de gras of the elementary school monotony, where a simple act of switching classes can free an eleven year old from boredom and misery, I say Halleluiah, and I'm not a church goer in the least. 
By all standards summer is still upon us, the calendar dictates the cause, despite the weather.  Snow may fall if it pleases but until the date is upon us to declare that we must fall into the autumn air and decor, let us continue schlepping lemonade and wearing shorts.  Meanwhile my neighbor has begun to pumpkinfy her front porch, any minute now the Halloween decorations will be staring at me from across the street; this frightens me more than a masked individual with a humming chainsaw chasing after me, unless of course a mighty wind blows them away.  Now I pray to the wind gods, "hear my plea and take those orange and dead grass things away from here, perhaps to pumpkin land, or somewhere else, where I do not care." 

It was not done on purpose I swear, but not on my life, because perhaps my intentions controlled my actions, and I was present when it happened, but I'll never admit it.  This is what happened, I was walking one of my dogs, Molly, she's a bit aggressive in nature, which is a nice way of saying she wants to attack everything, and we had to cross the street because another dog was being walked and Molly was doing her usual pulling on the leash, dragging me around routine, because she's really in charge of the situation and I'm just a puppet on a leash.  Well I managed to get her all the way up the pumpkin lady's driveway, the greater the distance from the other dog, the best for my wrist which suffers leash burn twice or three times a week, but Molly is really sweet when she's not provoked, when I say provoked I actual mean not at all bothered by anyone or anything that doesn't live in our house.  She doesn't mind us at all and gets along with the cats and other dogs at home, but the entire rest of the world poses a threat to her.  So there we were, Molly and me and my decision to undo a bit of the in my face prefall decor.  "Look, Molly a ball, get it." and sure enough Molly bit into that pumpkin and pushed it out into the street which happens to have a steep grade.  So as the pumpkin rolled it gained speed until in finally stopped when another neighbor was backing out of his driveway and ran it over.  By that time Molly and I were clear across the street, looking completely innocent.  And two teenagers just happened to be walking through our neighborhood, perfect decoys.  The next day the pumpkin lady was telling me how, Howie down the street, the guy who ran her pumpkin over, said two teens rolled it down the hill.  "Oh that's terrible," I replied, she said she wasn't buying another one until the week before Halloween, because those kids would probably come back and do it again.  "Halleluiah," I thought and laughed incredibly loud on the inside.  Just then my kids came running out of our house asking if they could set up a lemonade stand at the end of the street. 

What do you want for your birthday?

The big day approaches and the intrusive, "what do you want for your birthday," question keeps buzzing in my ear, like a lost bee looking for its hive, oh how I wish I could swat it dead.  I want what I've wanted for years, but because the gift givers do not conceive what I truly want, I get something they imagine for me, an annual imposition of what they perceive will be to my liking, or rather what I should like.  "Oh yes a weekend with the whole family miles away so we all have to spend time in the packed car to get there before we relax."  This time of year I always ask the same question, "Do you people even know me at all?"  Their usual response is dim witted and followed by a laugh at my expense.  "Lovely," I think and sit back and hope the day passes quickly.  The truth is I'd rather be celebrated by strangers than my loved ones, because that connection would mean I've actually done it, connected with the masses on some level.  Maybe I could invent something that would bring me the recognition I want, my stamp on the world, my reason for being here, you know the more valuable one, aside from raising the kids well and caring for my family all while I diminish a bit each day, fading into nothingness, 'the gazelle effect'.  That's it!  For my birthday no matter what gift I receive I want it to have a 'stick it sentiment' attached to the package.  I haven't thought about 'the stick it sentiment' for years, but it's something I thought of and I'm not quite sure why I haven't insisted on the concept until this moment.  the 'stick it sentiment' is really just a label, a shipping label before I run it through the printer and the ink makes the blank sticker page come alive with an identity.  In reality we will draw on the label, and write messages of birthday greetings and make each a work of art.  In my imagination the damn card company produces these sentiments with the sticky backs by the masses and there they sit next to the folded, traditional, envelope encased, boring old concept of here is your gift and this is the formal paperwork that goes with it, so you can respond to the giver with a note of thanks, also in card form, and because etiquette dictates this response and this initial action, you are trapped and the card company rules the world.  I vow to free everyone from the imperial rule of the card company.  Here use this oversized label and let the world know who the gift is from, that is the kind of non-card I want stuck to my presents.

Rigor mortis sets in

Making sense of nonsense.  Any minute now that kid is going to rip of that mask of hers off and devour her parents, and I won't flinch a bit as their flesh tears apart and that child sucks the life from them like a tiny vampire, dangerous but comical.  When she is done with them, she may search the room for others to destroy, if she hasn't quite had her fill.  When she gets to me, she will undoubtedly turn and flee, since I'm more a vampire than her.  Full grown in size and equipped with the sharpest of tongues as I lash at her wielding the word no.  A word, her parents do not possess and she knows this, this is her strength.  But tiny vampires are more comical than dangerous and their thirst is quenched often with only a juice box.  I've had my cake and now I must go, as a small birthday gift to myself I vow never to attend another of this demon child's birthday parties. 

Swollen face and hands, I've been brutalized by a night's sleep once again.  I'll play the part of the maiden, because the diamond would suffocate my ring finger if I forced it on.  Cold water, perhaps ice, perhaps another night's sleep would relieve the puffiness of my headshot.  Now that I'm dressed and prepared for the day, I will now fire all the warning shots from my 'I'm not a morning person' cannon.  Lunches are made with fumbling fingers and hair is brushed, those who ask for help with buttons or braids beware, for my wrath and my help are always a package deal on a day like this. 

Off to work I go, just another swollen face in the crowd with a milestone birthday behind me and the fill of that milestone birthday resting comfortably on my backside, hey I had my cake and ate it too. 

Ordinary ending

The middle schooler happened to make the volleyball team after all, she's not the most coordinated of the lot, but her enthusiasm must have granted her the spot.   The pumpkins are beginning to rot and I've tossed them all into the garden, waiting for the snow to come I suppose, and wondering what snow days were like at Nook Farm.  How many cigars did Twain smoke in winter?  I suppose just as many as the other seasons, but I still wonder what it would have been like to live there and perhaps be notable for something, anything.  If only the smoke clouded cigar room was a time machine, I'd use it, but would desire the fresh air above all when I arrived.  Being Stowe's neighbor, I would pick her brain and ask for help or offer to help with anything I suppose.  The year is no longer 1874 and we are back from the hospital because the volleyball player now has a broken leg.  She fell down the stairs before the first game.  Such is life, for clumsy people and such an ordinary adventure it has been to date.  I wonder what that monstrous child is asking Santa for Christmas.  I really should get out to the garden shed before the snow falls; I need to do a bit of trimming before I wax this time. 

part of a short story that i wanted to share on my birthday.....

what do you want for your birthday

the big day approaches and the intrusive, "what do you want for your birthday," question keeps buzzing in my ear, like a lost bee looking for its hive, oh how i wish i could swat it dead.  i want what i've wanted for years, but because the gift givers do not conceive what i truly want, i get something they imagine for me, an annual imposition of what they perceive will be to my liking, or rather what i should like.  "oh yes a weekend with the whole family miles away so we all have to spend time in the packed car to get there before we relax."  this time of year i always ask the same question, "do you people even know me at all?"  their usual response is dim witted and followed by a laugh at my expense.  "lovely," i think and sit back and hope the day passes quickly.  the truth is i'd rather be celebrated by strangers than my loved ones, because that connection would mean i've actually done it, connected with the masses on some level.  maybe i could invent something that would bring me the recognition i want, my stamp on the world, my reason for being here, you know the more valuable one, aside from raising the kids well and caring for my family all while i diminish a bit each day, fading into nothingness, 'the gazelle effect'.  that's it!  for my birthday no matter what gift i receive i want it to have a 'stick it sentiment' attached to the package.  i haven't thought about 'the stick it sentiment' for years, but it's something i thought of and i'm not quite sure why i haven't insisted on the concept until this moment.  the 'stick it sentiment' is really just a label, a shipping label before i run it through the printer and the ink makes the blank sticker page come alive with an identity.  in reality we will draw on the label, and write messages of birthday greetings and make each a work of art.  in my imagination the damn card company produces these sentiments with the sticky backs by the masses and there they sit next to the folded, traditional, envelope encased, boring old concept of here is your gift and this is the formal paperwork that goes with it, so you can respond to the giver with a note of thanks, also in card form, and because etiquette dictates this response and this initial action, you are trapped and the card company rules the world.  I vow to free everyone from the imperial rule of the card company.  here use this oversized label and let the world know who the gift is from, that is the kind of non-card i want stuck to my presents.

rigor mortis sets in

making sense of nonsense.  any minute now that kid is going to rip of that mask of hers off and devour her parents, and i won't flinch a bit as their flesh tears apart and that child sucks the life from them like a tiny vampire, dangerous but comical.  when she is done with them, she may search the room for others to destroy, if she hasn't quite had her fill.  when she gets to me, she will undoubtedly turn and flee, since i'm more a vampire than her.  full grown in size and equipped with the sharpest of tongues as i lash at her wielding the word no.  a word, her parents do not possess and she knows this, this is her strength.  but tiny vampires, are more comical than dangerous and their thirst is quenched often with only a juice box.  i've had my cake and now i must go, as a small birthday gift to myself i vow never to attend another of this demon child's birthday parties. 

today's lunch special.............cheeseballs....

writing as if it is a necessity of life…..

such as the consumption of nutrients or mere food…

whether i fill myself with dehydrated cheese snacks or fresh catch of the day, my vitality is somewhat satisfied…..

perhaps what I write is a filler of sorts, a mere get it over with appetite pleaser…..

but the craft is intricate and defined and I sit homeless waiting for others to be kind…

and occasionally I drown the processed cheese bits with the most sophisticated of wine

clams on a half shell i suppose.....

bradbury.....i see you....

i've been deciphering your writing code moments at a time.....now the pattern is mine...

all your words like notes of some symphony...played out and orchestrated by any who finger the right piano.....

a silent concert hall.....

a hundred thousand song less minds and two who are humming along....

a fool who still seeks a firefighter to put out the flame....as others run, because they know...

i saw it too 'that dinosaur...lying on the beach'

i prefer if you do not yell at me for knowing and instead offer a welcoming acceptance.....

for now i must go.....but i'll be listening for that phone to ring or are you too lost like peg in Mexico?

the pliable walls that surround me as the ocean waves crash through my front door.....delightfully drowning

standing tall with your spine intact.....immortal pages.....keep reeling you back...

skid marks and a hanged man

skid marks and a hanged man

mother of mine..

undignified....

a sad man has ceased bringing happiness.....

his sadness has become ours...

a spinning planet does not rest...

attainable knowledge remains unsought....

crashing waves ease the mind...

a hand sifts through the sand while the sun sifts through the soul...

life is ours to behold....

death is another's world to own.

soul for sale

purveyor of bullshit.....

recognition of none....

soul for sale....

the account of one....

the shelves are full, the buyer annoyed...

souls wall to wall

this treasure trove of meat and flesh...rotting from the tireless wait...

i recognize a few hanging by the door as i turn to leave...

a wanderer distant but in need...i offer it to him without the notion of greed...

take it, it's yours i need it not....for what i desire cannot be found in this place nor the next...

perhaps you'll find a better purpose now that you have one of your own......

unchained and unbound i leave

blood in streets....

for the first time it's not of my flesh...

immortal beings when pierced only bleed ink

before my morning tea....things like this happen.......

from jay to z

the mind must be set free

in a chair thoughts floating around

the butterfly flew away

before that day

the butterfly was a god damn worm....

words from within begging for commitment

each time like a sin

to be written or said out loud

the curse of the unknown my burden to carry

heavy it is.....the weight consumes....but the light minded wander free

mockingly

@DanWarp

Dan Schneider

before i begin i would like you to know that i did read this on your website:

 

 

"Please don't ask me to give you a job or help you find one.  I'd love to help everyone but I can't.  I'm here to entertain you, not give or find you a job. "

but for some reason i lost at least an hour of sleep last night, thinking....creatively i suppose, here it is....oh and you spelled whoa incorrectly on the website, but i've done it before as well....i'm sure no one else noticed.....

i was thinking about the character Spencer and how you could pull off a very young seinfeld type of existence for him.....i wanted the character to assume a job as a theater actor, and to consult his friend Sikowitz almost daily about his stage presence or whatever......

the show would need to stay aimed at the younger viewers, so there would have to be more going on.....like a producer's kids or something and their daily activities.....

i did come up with more ideas for episodes of this show that i imagined in my head.....

any who......like i said i understand you are here to entertain, but if for any reason you feel i can help with that in the slightest let me know thanks.....

if nothing else......then whoa could be corrected unless you did it intentionally? will you at least reply to this query?

Carol Cuomo @cclewia

 

the tenement queen........

my grandmother couldn't much live with a septic system, but it was the closest thing to the life i needed growing up, that rented farm house, and the small kitchen, where she swatted at that kid that wasn't hers for the first time.  i never knew grass could be that green, but that life was rented and they didn't stay long, back to the public water supply, back to where they came from, some would say where they belonged.  but she was a queen even though her crown was fashioned out of hair rollers.  she lived her whole life dwelling with others, more of her kind, the wisest of what this life has to offer, only stuck a bit, like the mortar that filled the bricks on some of those buildings.  i imagined a different life for her, i always have, and here i am without the crown of rollers, but attempting to drink from a well and live a better life, or just a different one, all i know is i'll never change, because i don't really have to, and she taught me that. 

the waiting room

it's extremely noisy in this quiet place....

a thousand internal screams hushed by the opening of a door....
 

a deafening past that refuses to be silenced....

a welcoming future reeling silent films of a life forgotten....

this day, a thread balancing the two, the you which came before this place and a door you must walk through.....

freedom is....

freedom is telling them all to go to hell without saying a word......

freedom is a decision.....one you may have to defend....

freedom is a right......

freedom is beautiful and weightless........

burden is something freedom should not have to haul.....

sometimes i wonder if any of us are truly free...

complicating everything.....

and dooming ourselves to slavery......

perhaps a metamorphosis can save us all.....

a true wonder to see.....

this change that transforms us......setting us free..............

My Muppet Vision

Blood Sucking Muppets

Here I sit age 39 and my childhood is penetrating my view box.  Kermit and Miss Piggy and all the rest via some commercial or something to that effect.  How glorious is the reaction they desperately seek, perhaps not with such desperation as the bank roll keeps 'movin' right along.'  Perplexing and not as iconic as the first time around, I should say.  The Muppet Show was what I watched I can't recall, was it on Tuesday nights or not, any who, I do recollect being punished one evening and tormented as the intro song taunted me through a crack in my bedroom door.  The wooden floors did not reveal any of the familiar faces I so desperately wanted to visit with that evening. 

So here they are years later, on commercials in movies, they are famous again and back in action.  Strange as that may be, but far worse is that those damn puppets haven't aged a bit, and Miss Piggy's hair looks amazing, what the hell?  So I suppose I'm supposed to say, " Oh, I watched The Muppets as a kid, and now my kids are enjoying them too."  No, this does not sit well at all, and perhaps, I'm complaining a bit too late about it all, but what a coincidence that The Muppets are back and Kermit would perhaps tell me to "be more tea" or something to that effect, but I still want to scream.  The horror, how dare they do whatever it is they do, which I suspect is sit on a shelf collecting dust until some man of a Muppet, or a Muppet of a man, whichever comes along and pretends to be brilliant.  Ha!

Here is the point, yes we come to it now.  Bring back The Muppets fine, but have them look their age for goodness sake, Kermit should be old and Piggy should look like one of The Golden Girls.  Let their kids be the stars of The Muppet Show so many years later.  They could even have Kermit die of a heart attack or something that the original viewers may have already done.  Oh Kermit, why does thou have immorality?

I will now accuse The Muppets of robbing me of my time to shine with their rehashing of Muppetisms.  I would even go as far as saying they are soulless, and if you do not understand why, perhaps I can shed a bit of light in that theater for you as well, sunlight, and there you will see as The Muppets burst into flames that they are indeed ageless and soulless, and blood sucking vampires to boot!  Which can be the only explanation to this strange Muppet phenomena.  Just ask any of the show's guest stars, if you can find any alive, to confirm my suspicions. 

To recap The Muppet show belongs in my childhood, not currently in my face and The Muppets must be vampires, else how could they be in my face!

the line segment

if I must travel from point A to point B.....I will take the line between those two points and twirl it into a sentence.

signed copy of Alana of the East and the Shadow Beast

buy it here and use the message forum to request signature!

http://www.ebay.com/itm/Alana-of-the-East-and-the-Shadow-Beast-by-C-C-Lewia-2013-Paperback-Brand-New-/121173531728?pt=US_Fiction_Books&hash=item1c36815c50#ht_60wt_893

'One woman who was trafficked into prostitution as a teen and now works as an anti-trafficking activist, said the best way to reduce prostitution would be to arrest the men who search for it.'

from the mouth and mind of a lowly subordinate...

the warden of captivity.....

fee fi fo fum...

the sound of her heels coming this way.....run....

she will devour your intelligence with her quavering voice her quivering hands will smite your lesson plans.....

fear not....her reach is only within.......leave a potion for her to drown her sorrow in....and when she sleeps...find pity....for she is not free.....

leave her golden goose and treasure trove...return home......

for yours is a much fonder place.....