Even optimists get the blues

I know you remember that a few moons ago I posted a series about “Reanimating The Warrior Goddess.” Complete with a Dwarfercise how-to. Well, as it turns out, I totally dropped the battle axe on that project. I know it’s hard to believe that I of all people got distracted and gave up. (We really need a sarcasm font to highlight that last sentence.)

The truth is, I have become more than slug-like. I am a ticking time bomb waiting for some sort of cardiac event or stroke. The realization hit last week when walking less than a block made me feel as if my chest may just collapse in on itself. It isn’t just about aesthetics, it’s about me not becoming one of the statistics that I treat as a nurse.

Of all people, I should know better. I have been studying fitness, health, and nutrition since I was 16 years old. I was once a personal trainer, an aerobics instructor, a healthclub manager. I know how to do what I need to do. I know how to plan what I need to do. I just haven’t been able to do it. Maybe it’s because of extrinsic factors such as my job, a few injuries obtained in the past few years, or stress. But the real issue has been a full on battle with depression.

So I have enlisted the help of a Physician Assisted Weight Loss program. In order to have my health issues addressed while on this road to recovery. This, people, is a big deal for me. I have made a decision that contradicts my pride. I have no choice but full disclosure, to the physician I am working with, and to myself. I can no longer lie to myself about the state of my body. I am dangerously unhealthy as a result of my weight.

I know how many times I have stated that I am a proud fat woman. And I am. I do love my curves. But my situation isn’t about what I look like on the outside. It is about the damage happening on the inside. My goal weight is nowhere near what the textbooks say is my ideal weight for my height. Honestly, I think I’d look sick at that weight. I like having curves, I like having muscle. My only goal in this endeavor is to lower my risk of becoming like one of my patients before I even turn 40. This is the reality of my situation. It isn’t pretty.

Of course I have outlined an exercise program for myself based on what I know I can stick with. And I have been doing mantras in my head to keep from beating myself up comparing what I can do now to what I could do then.

Once the initial agony is over and I can walk more than a block without passing out from lack of oxygen to my brain I plan on revisiting (er... relearning) martial arts. Of all the exercises and programs I have endured in the past, my period of martial arts training was when I was the most happy with myself inside and out. I felt strong, and in control. Empowered. I need that back in my life.

So now I sit here with my packet of personal data and plan of attack feeling a bit overwhelmed. I am nervous, excited, and still a little pissed off at myself. I am not an idiot. I am not uneducated in regards to how the body works. I am a human who has found herself stuck inside the most dangerous of human traps. The mind. It can be a force of evil if left unattended. Like a garden with no one to trim back the weeds and overgrowth. The mind can become a dense jungle of rogue, toxic thought. So I am going to spend the next few weeks with my gardening shears pruning my own garden. I’ll be on my hands and knees weeding the poisonous vines and grasses from the soil of my soul. And hopefully soon I will have the most glorious, lush paradise that I will continue to tend.

Operation: Reanimate The Warrior Goddess is back in action. So mote it be.

Dear Goddess hear my plea, give me strength to not become...

Occult Octopus Part II

Meet Osgood and Oscar two newest members of the Occult Octopus family of creative muses. They want to tell a story.

For the full story read about their father Onslow.

The story of the apples and the bees.

It feels like a long time since I’ve written a candid blog post about the life and times of Little Miss Fuzzy Lizzard. So here is a snippet of my life.

There are things I have mentioned but haven’t really discussed on my blog site. Some things that are like knives to my heart when I relive them. One is the death of my brother, Bryan. The only reason that I mention it now is because, out of nowhere, like usual, emptiness descends and I am a puddle of tears missing him. Due to watching television or a movie where a character loses his/her brother/sister/father (yeah, just about any family member) and my world just fades to sadness. Which is exactly what just happened. It might also be the fact that his birthday is coming up soon.

My brother was my best friend. He and I were 12 years apart in age. Which meant that he had a lot to teach me. He was my hero. He taught me to climb the apple trees in our backyard when I was barely old enough to walk. He taught me to love music. I mean really love music. He made my world bigger than the world most toddlers experience. I’m sure I was no more than an annoying tag along to a teenager. But he never made me feel like a burden on his young life.

Most of the mischief I found myself in was due to his influence. I always stole his records and played them on my little red record player. Scratching the hell out of them. He showed me the glory of bands like Pink Floyd, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Yes, The Band, and even the Alan Parsons Project. I learned what patchouli incense was in his bedroom, which I had to go through to get to mine. Never making the connection to what scent it was masking. Once I stole his naked women rubics cube, almost getting expelled from the third grade.

He was my life. Then I grew up. He moved out, once to Florida. And we still remained close. I wrote him letters. He kept those letters and a baby picture of me in his wallet until the day he died. There was a special bond between us, we needed each other. Like balancing forces keeping us from spiraling into chaos.

When I ran away from home as a teenager he was destroyed. He told me later how much he cried thinking about the horrible things that were going through his mind. Thinking of me being hurt made him crazy, sometimes angry. When I went on my first date with my ex-husband and stayed out all night, he hit the streets looking for me. And found me. When anything happened to me, he was there to rescue me. Or at least try.

When he was taken to the hospital for the first time after having a seizure while driving, it was me he called to come rescue him. And for the next nine years, as he suffered from the effects of brain tumors, he always called me to rescue him. We were more than siblings, we were the best of friends.

His disease began to strip away his ability to do things. His disease began to strip away his memory. His disease stripped away his life. I was there through it all, rescuing him. He admitted to me only once that he was scared. That he doubted that he would beat his disease.

He had the strength of a lion as the disease tore through his brain. Always believing that he could beat the odds with his will to survive, his faith. It was infectious. I almost believed it too.

Then his disease took its toll. His life. I was there, holding his hand at the moment of his death. The moment I felt my own life tremble and fall.

It has taken 11 years to find the strength to truly move on without him coming to my rescue. But the space in my heart where Bryan’s memory lives sometimes swells to overwhelming proportions. Releasing the tears, suffocating me. I still miss him more than anything.

But I will never again let my grief stall my life, like it once did. Last year I got a memorial tattoo for him, symbolizing him living forever in my heart. The apple blossoms on my shoulder make me long to climb the trees with him again. The bee on my shoulder represents his ability to live against impossible odds. Also, it is a bee for Bryan. I smile every time I see it. Like he is with me.

His words infuse me with his strength.

“It’ll be alright, Amy. Everything’s alright. Never give up.”

A Woman Without Heat

A Woman Without Heat
By Amy Moloney

A woman survives without heat
Upon smiles that raise the sea
Held tight, secrets, inside and out
Carrying the seeds of bitter doubt
She flows with quiet yet clumsy grace
Pain never hidden from her weathered face
Floats like petals upon a midnight breeze
Sunlight penetrating through the freeze
A wild beast within a strangers cage
Desperation is the war she waged
Youthful hope holds no power here
A woman lost to her deluge of fear
No redemption can heal this siren’s soul
Without damnation taking an eternal toll
The heat once bright encased in heart
Withers without at least a matching spark
Spiral down until darkness becomes real
Heat now something she must learn to steal
A woman without her own heat
Builds a fire then sets it free
Remembering a time when heat burned deep
Learning to live as a woman no one will keep

A short divergence from fantasy to focus on being a woman in 2012.

I don’t often voice my political views in public forums. Sometimes I repost funny memes about the ridiculous nature of the political landscape. But as I continue to scroll through my social networks the desire to speak gets more and more undeniable.

I am a woman. As such, I am outraged at the backward motion of our culture to place women in the subservient position once again. It is becoming clear that government and fanatical Christianity are becoming inseparable. The constitution is just seen as an obsticle in the way of those bent on controlling the bodies of women.

More than just being a woman. I am a woman unable to reproduce. My question is, in this new regimented mindset of governmental control of women’s healthcare, where does that leave my options of controlling a disorder I cannot control without the use of hormonally based medications? I cannot make children, so do the rules of procreation before health apply to me? Or am I just fucked? As a woman unable to be the baby maker politicans want me to be, do I even count. Is my medical condition now a crime according to recent legislation?

I may not be able to take birth control at my age due to high blood pressure, but it is unconscionable to take that option off the table for others battling the same disorder as I fight on a daily basis. I know birth control is only a small part of the trend to limit one’s access to gynecological care. Especially if you are under-insured or uninsured. Which most of the American public is.

I am pro-choice. Period. It should not be permitted for a medical professional to refuse care based on religious beliefs. I am a nurse, if I refuse care to a patient based on cultural or religious issues I will be sued for discrimination. So why is it permitted for a pharmacologist or physician to deny pregnancy prevention care for a woman based soley on the basis of a religious difference of opinion. If I did that I would lose my license.

The landscape of healthcare has been deteriorating in the United States since we have allowed pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies to make all the decisions. Doctors are mostly removed from the process unless it is an acute care situation. The US is the most inefficient society in the world for healthcare. We have the most advanced technology, but are limited by a capitalistic insurance adjuster saying it isn’t medically necessary to utilize the technology based on bottom line costs. We have put our medical decisions in the hands of those schooled in fiscal health not medicine.

Those same bean counters are the ones in Washington pushing legislation to limit access to those they deem unworthy, i.e. uninsured Americans. Then from there they have begun to target women in order to gain further control over the population.

I know this post is more of a rant than a political commentary. I have worked in the medical field for 15 years. I have seen it from many sides. The backsliding of healthcare scares me. As a woman. As an American. As a human.

Here is an article that say it better than I do.

While I'm ranting... Do not get me started on gay rights. I will always defend the rights of any human to love another human. I am pro-human. Period.

Short Story: Viking Ship

Viking Ship

Agents Of Asgard Episode 1

By Amy Moloney

Maxwell sat on his favorite chair staring at the computer screen. It just stared back at him, blank. He wanted to write it all down, to broadcast it to the world. But the words just didn’t come. He had the most incredible experience of his life and he couldn’t tell anyone. Not even his cat Barnabus would believe him. And Barnabus had been there, as his guide. But now the lazy cat slept at his feet and was again a cat.
“Barnabus, you were there. You saw that Viking ship. You met Odin. We sailed to Valhalla. Tell me you are not just a cat again?” Barnabus just blinked up at him. There was no sign of the spirit guide he was just a few hours ago. Maxwell sighed.
Maxwell put his fingers to the keyboard tentatively. “I have to write this down, Barnabus. I have to.”
But there was some sort of internal censor stopping him from writing it. He could feel it sending pain to his fingers as he tried to type the words. He got as far as the words, “I was taken by invisible gods to Valhalla tonight” before his brain shot electrical current into his fingers. His computer completely shut down.
Maxwell sat there staring at his hands. Barnabus was unmoved by the commotion putting his paw back over his eyes and went the sleep.
“Ok, I can play this game. I can’t type? How about speak? Can I tell the story to my cat? Who was there.” Maxwell was speaking to the air, but he knew Freki was listening. The wolf was breathing down his neck. Invisible, but there.
Freki had befriended Maxwell when he first arrived on the ship. An uncharacteristic move on Freki’s part. For some reason this man had a familiar feel to the wolf. And that feeling is what saved Maxwell from being tossed into the churning sea beneath the ship. Freki was the only creature on the ship to recognize the endless journey was finally nearing a real destination.
Maxwell rose from his chair, tossing the laptop aside. Barnabus padded off to a corner on the other side of the room, miffed at being disturbed again. Freki stalking behind the man nudged his nose into Maxwell’s palm. Sensing it was useless to remain hidden from his friend.
“Freki, I thought I was abandoned again. Why can’t I see you?”
“Because I am not of this world. I still sail with Odin. I am here to bring a message and protect that which is sacred.” Freki’s voice resonated within the small room with a deep, etherial tone.
“Odin has a message for me? I thought he kicked me out of Valhalla after kidnapping me there in the first place. Dealing with him is worse than my last crazy girlfriend. Can’t he make up his mind?” Maxwell was irritated to say the least. He had lived a lifetime in the past few hours.
“You insult Odin? You are brave and stupid. I knew there was a reason I liked you. His message is simple. You may tell your story, but not write it.”
“What the hell does that mean? Why can’t I write it?” The questions were answered inside Maxwell’s head. By Odin. Which hurt Maxwell more than the hand electricity bit.
Odin was not exactly what Maxwell had read in his mythology books. He was a crank old man who couldn’t find his way home. He had accidentally kidnapped the young man and now was trying to tie up the loose ends of his mistake. Odin had once been the most glorious Gods in history. Now he sailed in circles looking for a place he had forgotten. Valhalla was always eluding him and he was uncertain why. This is why he distorted time and perception in order to keep his crewmen from knowing the truth. Odin was lost.
That was until a few hours ago when a man named Maxwell mysteriously appeared on his ship and stole his wolf. This man then had the nerve to disappear and attempt to tell the world that Odin was a senile old man. The fury boiling under Odin’s skin was visible. His crew avoided being within ten feet of him. They had found the halls of Valhalla alright. But those halls had aged and turned to dust. Odin was beside himself for allowing so much time to pass. The rage that was at himself, but Maxwell was going to be the target. And that damned cat was going to pay for being the soul vehicle that brought the man to his ship. Odin new never to trust a cat. They were always in too many dimensions at once. It was too easy for mortals to cross the planes if they used cats.
Barnabus stood and stretched. His hackles up. He growled low in his throat, sensing another presence in the room. The cat circled Maxwell’s legs then caught sight of the wolf on the other plane of existence. The cat hissed and clawed toward the spot where Freki stood. But the veil protected the wolf from physical harm. He could not cross into Maxwell’s world at this time.
“Why is the wolf here?” Barnabus spoke.
This was the first time Maxwell had ever heard his cat speak. He just stared, mouth open. The man drew a deep breath then rationalized that he was already talking to an invisible wolf, why not a talking cat.
“Have you always been able to talk, Barnabus?”
“Of course I have. You just haven’t always been able to listen. Again, Why is that wolf here? I am not going back to that cold, wet boat. If that’s what he wants, leave me out of it this time.” Barnabus walked away with his tail in the air making sure that the wolf had a full view of his opinion.
“Barnabus, he isn’t taking us back. Whoa, are you?” Maxwell suddenly was worried too. He agreed with his cat. No way did he want to go back to Odin’s world.
“You are not being invited back. Do not worry. However, you may want to inform THE CAT that it was him, not Odin who transported you to our world in the first place.” Freki was teasing the cat.
Barnabus sat at attention in the middle of the room, watching. He did not like being called out for doing what cats are supposed to do. When something comes through the veil, a cat’s job is to catch it. They were proud of keeping the world safe from mischievous visitors from other realms. The mischief on this realm was for cats to claim. He was only doing his job when that spirit bounced through the veil. He and his human were not supposed to be sucked into a portal. And he was not meant to be a spirit guide once on the other side of that portal. None of the events of the evening were his fault. It was Odin who cast that faulty spell.
Barnabus opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by a loud knocking on the door. Maxwell wasn’t expecting visitors, so he was caught off guard as well. The knocking repeated, this time with an authoritative, “Mr. Karnes, this is the police. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Maxwell froze. Why were the police at his door? He went to the door and peeked through the hole. There was a small uniformed officer and a taller man in a suit waiting. He opened the door with the chain still in place. “What can I do for you Officers?”
“Have you seen this woman?” The man in the suit showed the picture of a young girl to Maxwell. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place why. Maxwell shook his head no.
“She was seen having coffee at your cafe. You spoke with her for a long time yesterday. She is missing. And sir, we have reason to believe that you went missing for a some time this evening as well. Would you like to answer again, have you seen this woman?” Mr. Suit was pressing at the door.
“Sir, I do not recall this woman. If I spoke to her at work I probably was telling her about our specials. I have been home all evening, alone. So if you do not mind I am quite busy.” Maxwell tried to close the door but Mr. Suit was still holding on to the other side. He leaned into the gap between the door frame and the door, looked Maxwell in the eye and smiled. He let go of his hold on the door a moment later and walked away.
The woman had looked familiar. Mr. Suit looked familiar too. Neither the uniformed officer nor Suit had identified themselves. They did not show ID. Maxwell doubted that they were actual cops. His paranoia began to grow. This had to be about Valhalla. Freki had mentioned that Asgard still had human operatives in this plane. They were around to protect the gods from being forgotten, but also to protect them from being known. Maxwell frowned when he thought about how everyone he has encountered recently spoke in riddles. Even, it seems, his cat.
“That was Thor’s Hammer at the door. Of course he goes by Jorgen in this world.” Freki said it very matter of factly.
“Thor’s Hammer? Thor’s Hammer is a person? Why was he here?” Maxwell looked at the empty space where Freki’s voice emanated. He was hoping to see his friend standing there, reassuring him that what happened wasn’t all in his head. That he isn’t going insane.
“Thor’s Hammer has many meanings and many incarnations. This particular Hammer is the most deadly of them all. He is an assassin, as spy, and very dedicated to Asgard’s secrets.”
“Great. This just gets better. So now I have a Viking assassin to contend with. Does he want to kill me?” The fear was hard to hide from his voice. The adventure which started out exciting was fast becoming a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
“He is fishing for answers. You must have set off alarms in Asgard. I fear many will now be trying to figure out what you were doing with Odin. The others have long been suspicious of him. Loki will be the next to track you down. I will stay with you after I tell Odin that you won’t betray him. Until I return, do not leave your home.” Freki retreated into the void once more.
“Don’t look at me for answers.” Barnabus shook his head at Maxwell then walked away mumbling, “Humans, what a helpless species.”
It was midnight when Maxwell felt Freki’s breath on his hand. “Welcome back, Freki.”
Freki just nuzzled his hand. It was a show of affection that was unfamiliar to the wolf. Affection that was genuine. Maxwell was the closest thing to a friend Freki had encountered. He had no obligation to the human. The human asked nothing of the wolf other. Freki felt loyalty to Maxwell. At times, he felt more loyal to Maxwell than he did to Odin. Which was a dangerous realization. Odin had once been a very sound master. But time and misspent magic had eroded the God he had loved into a madman.
“First things first. Who was the woman in the photograph that Jorgen showed me?” Maxwell was ready to unravel the mystery and get on with his life. Without interference form Norse Gods.
“Freyja”
“Freyja? The goddess Freyja was in my cafe before all of this happened? That cannot be a coincidence.” Maxwell’s eyes twitched. His hands clenched. He was beginning to feel as if he’d been set up. “You said the others were suspicious of Odin. What if they had set this whole thing up to draw him out of the time loop he created?”
Freki processed that idea. “You may be on to a logical explanation of how you ended up on Odin’s ship. Maybe it wasn’t the cat’s fault after all.” At that last comment, the cat perked up.
Barnabus looked directly into the wolf’s eyes, through the veil, before he spoke. “If that is an apology, it is a poor one. However, I accept.”
“We are partners in this you two. Stop the hostility. Now, to figure out why I was chosen to cross the void and out Odin. And is Freyja really missing?” There were now more questions than explanations. “How about we go out to get something to eat, I need new air to breathe.”
As Maxwell ate his greasy diner steak he fed every other bite to Freki. The waitress pretended not to notice that the meat disappearing into thin air as she poured a second cup of coffee, almost overflowing the mug. Maxwell just smiled and said, “I have an invisible friend.” She walked away looking confused.
Maxwell pulled out his notebook and pen and began making notes. This time there were no electrical shocks.
The little bell over the front door tinkled the arrival of a new customer. Maxwell looked up and saw Freyja walk in. She headed to his booth and sat down across from Maxwell.
“Hello Freki, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” She nodded toward the invisible wolf. “Mr. Karnes, I believe you have information that is pertinent to Asgard.”
Freyja was more beautiful than he remembered her in his cafe. She was stunning without trying to be. She wore simple jeans and an Iron Maiden T-shirt. Not what Maxwell expected of a goddess. Though, he had never expected to meet a goddess at a diner before. Nor had he ever expected to be the center of a conflict between Norse Gods. One of them losing his mind.
“I’m not sure what you mean. I have never been to Asgard.” Maxwell didn’t think deflecting the question was going to do him any good, but he tried anyway.
“I know where you have been. I know that Odin is not himself. What I need to know from you is how unlike himself he is. He has let Valhalla crumble, his warriors are trapped on that ship circling the sea, he has lost his wolf to a human. You cannot tell me he is well. Quit playing the fool, I will show you a goddess if need be.” She was matter of fact. He caught the treat, took her seriously.
“He swore me to secrecy. I cannot tell you exactly what I saw. I can tell you that his warriors no longer sail aimlessly.” That was the truth.
“I can tell you, Freyja.” Freki began. “He is beyond Asgard’s help. His magic has distorted and he sails without the winds to guide him. He is lost.” Freki sounded as if he were crying.
Freyja nodded at the wolf knowing the courage it took. Odin would not easily forgive the wolf for betraying his secrets. “I am not your enemy, Maxwell. Neither is Jorgen. We are doing what is best for Asgard. Also, for humankind. If things continue to spiral out of balance in our world, your world is at risk of destruction. Ragnarok will happen in your world if we do not stop Odin’s madness.”
“You are saying that Ragnarok is really going to happen? Here, in my world? What does any of this have to do with me? It was no coincidence that you showed up before I was whisked off to his ship. Why me?”
“Simple. You are Odin’s offspring. His great-great-great-great-etcetera etcetera etcetera grandson. A human grandson with Odin’s blood. You were the only choice to reach him.” She stood to leave then turned back around. “And Maxwell, take care of that wolf. He is in your care now.” She walked out of the diner with another tinkling of the bell.
On his way back home Maxwell noticed that he was being followed. He kept hold of Freki’s fur. Freki walked close enough to knock Maxwell sideways more than once. Until Maxwell finally stopped and turned around to face his shadow.
The man following thought Maxwell was drunk. He walked up and handed Maxwell a pouch. “This is a gift from Jorgen.” Then the man vanished.
Inside the pouch was a dagger. An ornate dagger with runes carved into the blade and a green stone in the hilt. Wrapped around the handle was a note that read: Use to free a soul from it’s own prison.
When Maxwell arrived home Barnabus met him at the door impatiently. “Odin was here. He looked angry.”
“He was here? He came through the veil?” Freki asked, cutting the cat off from his retelling of the events.
“As I was saying, Odin was here. He wants you to return to Valhalla immediately Freki. He said that you should bring the man-child. And that he will unleash his fury if you do not obey at once.” Barnabus did not like gods walking through his home. He took great care to keep the walls between the worlds in place around his human. Now all the rules had been broken and his job was becoming near impossible.
“He’s right.” Maxwell said. “We have to return to Valhalla. That is the only way to rebalance Asgard. I have to free Odin’s soul. I know what I must do. How do we get there?”
“I guess that’s where I come in,” Barnabus was beyond annoyed about having to do what he was about to do. Maxwell was right, he had to return. This time however Barnabus was not crossing through, only holding the gate open until Maxwell’s return.
Barnabus began circling his human’s legs, drawing a tight circle around Maxwell. A small vortex of energy rippled at his feet. Then he was standing on the ground where the halls of Valhalla should have been.
Standing in the center of the rubble was Odin. He looked old, weary, lucid. He looked lucid. Only for a moment, then the crazed look returned to his eyes. When he spotted Maxwell the veins in his temple began to visibly grow. “I see you have returned. I demand that you give back what you have stolen.”
Confused, Maxwell looked at his grandfather more closely. “What have I stolen from you?” He decided to play along. It wasn’t going to be easy to get to him with Viking warriors surrounding him. And they were. The entire field was filling with Vikings. They didn’t seem to be threatening Maxwell. But he hadn’t pulled his dagger out as of yet.
“You stole my wolf. I demand you return him at once.” Odin came closer to his grandson, oblivious to the fact that Maxwell was his only living heir.
“I did not steal your wolf. He is right here. He can go where he desires. I lay no claim on him.” Maxwell tried to sound confident as he spoke. But his voice cracked at times betraying his fear.
Freki stood between the men, afraid Odin would act rashly and crush Maxwell. Odin looked down and noticed the wolf. A smile creeping onto his face. For a moment he looked young and happy. That faded when his glare met Maxwell’s eyes. “Who do you think you are? My wolf has changed allegiance. I can smell it.”
With Odin’s attention on the wolf, Maxwell drew the dagger quickly, hoping he was right about what the note meant. He plunged the dagger deep into Odin’s chest. Blood pooled on Maxwell’s hand. He felt the pain of his actions instantly. As he withdrew the blade a wisp of black smoke came with it. It circled the two men then flew toward the trees, disappearing.
Vikings descended upon Maxwell, pinning him to the ground. He didn’t fight back. He just waited for what he hoped was about to happen. It did.
Odin sat up slowly, holding the hole in his chest. He looked around and saw what had happened to his great halls. Odin sobbed. His grief a palpable thing. The Vikings let Maxwell up. Odin reached out and threw his arms around his grandson in an almost suffocating embrace.
“You did it, boy. You freed me. I knew you could do it.” Odin was happy, young, vibrant. He was himself.
“You knew I could do it?”
“Why else would I send Freyja to find you? I’m still upset about my wolf. But then again, you do have my blood running through your veins. Consider him on loan. For your safety. The others know you are kin. That may not bode well for you in the future events. Now, if you don’t mind finding your way home, it seems I have a lot of work to do rebuilding my halls.”
Moments later Barnabus appeared, opened a door, and escorted Freki and Maxwell home where Freyja was waiting with take out from the Chinese Buffet.
Life had suddenly become complicated for Maxwell Karnes.

Short Story: Lemon Cake

Lemon Cake

By Amy Moloney

She floated into the room, an apparition, holding a delicate china plate. Her soft voice rang in my ears with a sing-song lullaby.

“Please dear, try some lemon cake. It will soothe the edges of your pain.” She said with a hint of sorcery.

“Thank you, Mrs. Teagarden. It looks divine.” I was under her spell before the first bite touched my lips.

“Madame Teagarden, dear. And it is divine. Made by the Goddess herself.” With that last part she winked and I saw a radiant light emanate from her fingers as she held them to her mouth in a shush gesture.

As I lifted the first bit of soft, creamy lemon cake to my eager mouth a darkness fell over the room. A complete darkness that always made everything feel colder.

“The Feedlings are here, dear. You have a decision to make. Eat the cake. It will make things easier.” Madame Teagarden was as calm as ever. I could hear her fluttering about the room at ease in the darkness.

“Who are the Feedlings?” With my mouth so full of cake that it sounded more like I said “Ooo er da eefigs?” The cake was more delicious than I had expected. I truly believed that a goddess had made it. Nothing has ever felt so perfect in my mouth.

The lights flickered for a moment then came on with an audible electrical buzz. She was across the room holding a beautiful glass wand the color of the afternoon sky. The tip glowed violet. She waved it in the air, sparks of sunshine following in it’s wake.

“That’s better. Isn’t it, dear?”

“Yes. The room seems brighter than before.” My mind was floating in a state that reminded me of the twilight time when I am just waking up from a vivid dream. The room was brighter and slightly out of focus. I could see movement at the edges of my vision. Little flashes of light flying just to my peripheral.

“It’s time, dear. You must choose.” Then she held out a small serving tray with three cards face down. On the back of each card was written the word Lonliness.

“I’m confused. What do these cards mean?” I didn’t feel particularly lonely right then. I remembered feeling lonely before Madame Teagarden came into the room. In fact, the loneliness was suffocating.

I remember it being blinding, obscuring the little things around me. The sweet little things of life that can otherwise be glorious experiences. It reached inside of me, inside my very soul. Erasing memories, replacing them with bitterness. Distorting the truth of what they once were. I allowed the loneliness to get it’s claws deep inside my skin. A succubus slowly dissolving the breath within my lungs. Constricting with each inhalation, a python breeding misery.

I took another bite of lemon cake and felt numb to the memory of loneliness again.

“Do you choose loneliness, dear?” Her voice slightly less calm.

“What? Who would choose loneliness? I am very confused.” I was swimming in a sea of detached emotion. Why would I want to be lonely? Suddenly the visit from Madame Teagarden didn’t seem so divine. Fear was beginning to bite at my skin. I could feel it, sort of.

“Hurry dear, the Feedlings are here. If you do not choose a card they will feed on your loneliness. I do not think you would want that. It is a far worse fate than loneliness.” She was losing her calm and speaking a bit faster.

The Feedlings appeared suddenly before my eyes. Little flashes of light expanded into brilliant vortexes of fire. Each with a mouth as big as their spinning center. Fangs dripping with glittering liquid, beautiful and sinister. It was impossible not to become entranced by the Feedlings. They were like nothing I’d ever seen.

I heard them speaking into my mind. Promising to take away the crippling pain of loneliness. Their voices sang together like a choir. It was irresistible. I was opening my mouth to answer them when Madame Teagarden came at me with the lemon cake in one hand and the wand in another. She laid the lemon cake on my lap before tracing a circle around my chair with the wand.

“Eat the entire cake now.” She said it with authority. Squeezing the words through gritted teeth. She was either angry with me or frightened. I couldn’t tell which in my current state of detachment.

I was frightened. That much I knew. I ate the cake, devouring it. It was still delicious, but stung my throat on the way down. I felt emotion slowly descending upon me once more. I was myself again.

I could see the circle Madame Teagarden had drawn around me. The feedlings were hungry, frantically ramming the circle with their teeth trying to get through. Under the plate with the cake was the tray holding the three cards. I looked at them closely. Above the word loneliness on each card was another word written in a smaller print.

I chose the one that read Accept Loneliness. When I turned the card over there was a picture of my face staring back at me.

The Feedlings became irate. Their singing became howls of anger. They continued to assault the circle around me, chipping away at it. I saw threads of light crumbling, fracturing the barrier.

Two Feedlings made it into the circle with me. They were close enough for me to feel the suction of the vortex pull my hair into their mouths.

One bite of lemon cake was left on the plate. I picked it up with my fingers and put it into my mouth. As it melted on my tongue I whispered the words, “I accept my loneliness as a part of who I am.” I do not know where those words came from, they seemed right. I closed my eyes and prayed for the Feedlings to go away. I wanted my emotions back, the good and the bad. I wanted to feel like me.

The Feedlings disappeared with a popping noise. The circle dissolved and Madame Teagarden was nowhere to be seen. I looked down at the empty plate, the card with my photograph, and the blue glass wand. My hair was singed a bit on one side and there was a ring of smoke rising from the carpet around my chair. But every entity that had been there moments before were gone. Except for me.

I laughed at the sudden quiet exaggerating the loneliness of the room. The loneliness that somehow felt right. I picked up my purse, checked myself in the mirror, then went out for the night.

**While writing this story the following song kept playing in my head. If you haven't heard of The Jane Austen Argument, I suggest you listen. They make me happy. And this is a great song to accompany this story. Enjoy, my lovelies.

Onslow the Occult Octopus: How the creative process is like drowning a fish.

As most know already I am one of those creative types. I’m a writer, occasional artist, a nonsensical idea machine, crafter of weird shit, and half-assed do it yourselfer. You know this because I go on about it until you want to forget that you know me. And anyone who has ever seen me anywhere knows I am never more than a few inches away from a piece of paper and a pen. I write almost compulsively.

What you may not know is that I am working on a book. A novel. A manuscript. All of those words that scare the hell out of me because they put a tangibleness, a commitment to the project that I have previously lacked. So I have been forced to rethink my creative process. Which I admit is pretty much just word chaos. And I seem to be at the mercy of my creative whims instead of controlling the creativity. My entire life lacks structure, especially my writing process.

Creativity is almost impossible to define. And even more impossible to perfect. There is no logic to why we do anything creative. Because it flows like water and bends the surrounding vessel like water. I am a vessel. I am only a vessel. I cannot touch it, yet it inevitably touches me. I have been battling myself with my own creative process. Trying to change my shape to fit the flow. I feel like I am doing it wrong, backwards. I built a dam when I naively changed my shape, making the flow of creativity back up and get muddled.

So what I have done is step back. I decided to go back to the beginning of when I first felt the lure of my muse. Somewhere around the year 1979 I believe. I was maybe 4 when she first appeared to me. She was whispering in my ear words and stories even then. But I was not equipped to transcribe those stories at such a tender age. Then when I was a bit more adept at making letters and numbers on paper, she gave me songs. I still have one of those songs that I wrote at around age 5.

I recently have begun watching videos and reading articles on how other authors go through the creative process for themselves. There it is, another scary word. Author. Which I have not given myself permission to use in reference to me as of yet. But the tingle of acceptance is there, somewhere. And in the process of learning how others channel their stories, their creativity, I bumped into my elusive muse again. She has been around, just in the background, silent. She and I have not had a productive relationship in years. But she never left me. She still believes in me when I do not. She waited for me to come back to her.

One of the inspirational videos I watched referenced genius as muse. And that in ancient Greece people had a genius instead of being a genius. It took the ego out of the creative process. The great works came from divine inspiration, not from within the person creating the great works. This concept resonated with me. Mainly because I have always thought of my writing ability as a sort of channelling or mediumship of a greater entity. I always felt I had a muse.

I like the idea of being separate from my creation so that I can let it take on it’s own life without it draining or becoming all about me. It can become what it is meant to be instead of making it about my personal bullshit. Or forcing the story when it should tell itself. Which has always been a challenge for me. This concept has helped me listen to the inner voice without all of that talking over my muse.

So what I have done, in my witchy nature is create a genius for myself. An actual physical object that I have deemed my writing genius/muse. I can look him in the eye and tell him whether I like his ideas or not. I can call him out when he is not giving me the inspiration I feel is needed at the time. I have a real life thing that I can use as a tool in the process. Props are helpful. And if I aspire to be an AUTHOR, I need all the help I can get.

His name is Onslow the Occult Octopus. Occult mainly because I put a bunch of creativity symbols and such on the back of him. So now he's all magical and shit.

The creative process since I changed my thinking about it has effected my work profoundly. The project I have been working on began to flow once more. Onslow is delivering on his promise.

However, I have one small issue with Onslow. He is a big metal octopus that hangs on my wall. What about when I go out of the house and write? I came up with a solution. Onslow is going to give birth to portable Occult Octopi. I am in the process of making an octopus pendant to wear out and about, and a small octopus figurine that can sit at any desk in my house. So there will be a family of geniuses to guide me through my creativity. This book will be written and it will be amazing. I can already feel it coming to fruition.

The Occult Octopus family will be:
Onslow: the father genius (big metal wall octopus)
Ophelia: the daughter muse (pendant)
Osgood: the son genius (figurine)

I'll post pics of the family when they have all been born. Ophelia is crowning as we speak...

Dear Dio

Soon I am launching a new advice series called Dear Dio. Where I answer your questions and solve your problems by channeling my guardian angel known as Ronnie James Dio.

This series will rock your face off.

Now accepting submissions to Dear Dio.

Ask questions here or via my twitter or facebook.

And rock on...

Piece Of Me

There is a theme emerging all over my life. Although each time it emerges it is not about me. It does seem to be shaking out pieces of my past that need not shake loose. Pieces that are private and painful.
There is a piece of me that the world does not get to have. A piece of myself that I keep inside for a reason. It is painful and it is no ones business. The world can have my words, my sense of humor, my laughter, my mindless musings, my social media babbling. But it cannot have this piece. The tears I have cried on it’s behalf are sacred. They have cast a hardness inside of me that is needed. I survive today because of this piece of me, it’s strength, it’s steadfastness, it’s ability to numb the pain of things that are not permitted in my open forum.
Some close to me have seen this piece of me, when I trust them enough to hold it’s sacred secrets. Few hold this privilege.
The theme that emerges from the world mirrors this piece of me. And the strength of others empowers me further. I silently hold their hands, vigilant in our brokenness. I stand as a century at the gates of unification. Together we fight the hidden demons that threaten to steal away our very will to live. But the important part is that we fight. We fight together, whether we are screaming out loud or are silent. The monsters we fight are gone from our lives but live inside our minds like the big bad wolf threatening to reclaim us. We fight not physical battles, but battles that are waged in the what if. What if I had done this. What if they do that. The what ifs are more dangerous than flesh. They tear at our foundations, making every waking hour torture. And every sleeping hour a nightmare. If sleep even comes at all.
It lives in me, makes me just imperfect enough to be considered a rare treasure. I am that one misprinted stamp worth more than every other 15 cent stamp. And even in the reflection of this theme, I grow stronger. I become fierce. It drives me to be better. As much as I wish I never had to have had experienced the things that created this piece of me, I know that those experiences were the coals that forged my strength. I honor the past and refuse to relive it. I am the one in control of me now. Not the invisible creatures that prey at old wounds. The scars are trophies, they prove that I have won. And always will win.

Dear World, you cannot have this piece of me.

Food Sex With Donuts

I went out on the town for a ladies night with some of my best friends. We had the most delicious dinner and conversation.

Dinner was at one of my favorite local restaraunts. I ordered the stromboli. Then I half-heartedly joked that my stromboli lacked it's usual visual flair. I used to say that I loved ordering the "lesbian stromboli" because it was the only vagina I enjoyed eating.

The cook heard my complaint and made me dessert, on the house.

This is what he made for me:

This is how I chose to eat it:

This was the surprise he rigged for me:

*Hint: hot icing inside that spilled out all over my hand.

This is the lesbian stromboli from the past:

Saga Of The Bat: In Which I Discover I Am A Coward

I woke up today to my cats freaking out. Went into the dining room, turn on the lights, and coming toward my face is this huge black winged beast. Note, I had not yet put my glasses on so I had no idea what beast just dive bombed my head. I scream, run towards the living room, then the bedroom, and hide on the floor next to my bed. Still screaming. Like a bitch.

After about 5 minutes of incoherent shrieking, I call a friend: "Are you home? There's a bird in the house! Help!"

He wasn't home.

My brain explodes into tiny fragments that resemble an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I still think it's a bird. A crow. And they are not good omens in my crumbling mind.

I breathe in what I believe is the closest thing to courage I can muster. As I walk back into the dining room to finally save the kitties, I notice that the winged beast is NOT a bird. It is, in fact, a bat. Which sets off a 2nd wave of panic.

Crow was creepy. BAT IS FUCKING SCARY. REALLY FUCKING SCARY.

I hide again.

Then post my situation on facebook. (Priorities, you know.) And as someone pointed out took the time to 'Like' Harry Potter while facing my impending death. Which is, of course, what I would do in the face of true doom.

From the suggestions of my friends, I try to lure the bat out of my dining room by turning out all the lights.

I open all my doors and begin to make stupid noises that in my frenzied mind seem wise while standing barefoot on my back porch with a flashlight. I have never been to bat luring school, I assume my techniques were faulty.

Nothing happened. The bat just hung there on my dining room ceiling looking all bat-like and spooky.

I try a new technique. I begin pleading with the bat. I ask him to at least have the decency to turn into a vampire, as I believe I am less afraid of vampires than bats. He just hangs there like a mother fucking bat. My cats are still circling the floor trying to find a way to reach the tasty bat treat on the ceiling. They are acting more like hell hounds than cats.

I again try the lure the bat out of the house with the flashlight and stupid noises method. Still barefoot. This time I try bat calling. Here batty, batty, batty.

My friend comes home to help. This is where he becomes a bat slayer and I become a quivering mad woman that hears Orc drums in the basement.

Dressed in an isolation suit he goes to work. First by throwing gold christmas ornaments that I just happen to have in a bucket in my dining room at the bat. Then by staring the thing down. The bat doesn't budge.

I am weilding a badminton racket and an extention cord with a sonic bug repeller. My Xena Warrior Princess persona has long left the building along with any dignity that I pretended to have. I stood there, knees shaking and making all kinds of high pitched anxiety noises. What a coward.

He takes up the other badminton racket and broom. Tells me to just get the fuck out of the room. As I am pretty much just a hinderance at this point.

Finally my hero catches the beast between the broom and racket.

The bat was successfully relocated to the great outdoors of Covington.

Now I have a new phobia. And now my cats are now circling me like they have turned into batcats. Those assholes have a sick sense of humor.

Epic Dreaming Of Vampires, Werewolves, And Vikings.

As per usual, I had a vivid and epic dream with an intricate storyline. This one however did not include a celebrity cameo. It was about vampires and other paranormal creatures. Mostly vampires.
With most dreams, they come back to you in waking hours little by little. Sometime in just emotions that shroud you in the ambient haze of the dream itself. That is what today’s dream did. As I go about my day... er... night, the details descend upon me like long forgotten memories.
The first thing I recall from the dream is being surrounded by fire in a large storage building. There were people running around confused, I saw men pointing the way to the exits. I ran the opposite direction, into the fire. I knew there were people inside that needed to be saved. I arrived at the epicenter of the flames and there sitting on a row of wooden crates were about five vampires, trapped by the fire. I used all of my strength to carry them all out at once.
Once out in the open, in a thickly wooded area, the vampires surrounded me. More than five now. They circled me, sniffing and smiling. I stood there covered in soot ready to be made into a meal. But that did not happen. A well dressed vampire with long dark hair reached for my hand and began wiping the soot from my skin with his lacy handkerchief. He told me I needed to go back into the burning building to save the precious pieces of artwork. That art was the only thing that kept the human race tolerable. So I ran into the building engulfed in fire and brought out the wooden crates the vampires were guarding. Inside were paintings and marble sculptures all with a carnal theme. All depicting vampires in the thrall of sexual conquest over a mortal woman.
The dark haired vampire told me that I was an enemy of their race. I began to change into a wolf in response to his taunt. He sniffed me again and said to me, “There is fae inside this wolf.” I ran into the woods and found myself on the edge of a cliff. Where I jumped into the churning waters below. I swam to an island and was again met by vampires. The dark haired one paced in front of me waiting for me to change again. I didn’t. He offered me a position within the high council of vampires as a high priestess. I would become a coveted oracle among the undead. They would bring children to me as offerings. I would put the children into my room and hide them inside a room with golden walls. They would write down their dreams and tell me about their imaginary friends. And I would care for them and make talismans against their fear.
The vampires would fight over who would bring me the most sexual pleasure. All lined up at my door for the chance to bed me. They would grow stronger on my blood. It became addictive like a drug. One told me that the fire was intentionally set by the vampires to entice me into their council. They needed a seer and wanted to drink my blood. I was furious and began to seek out the dark haired vampire.
When I found him I was so entranced with him that I didn’t kill him. Instead I had sex with him in the middle of the forest as a wolf. Then the wolf/fae hybrid I was drank his blood. He gave me the gift of shape shifting into mist. He and I became the king and queen of the vampire council. He was my exclusive lover from that point on. I learned to use magic and began using it to find magical pieces of art. We then opened a temple where those pieces of art were used by mortal magicians in order to take down the corrupt human system of government. Our plan was to replace it with an old Norse drinking hall. And all decisions made on behalf of the governments of the human race would be made by representatives from ancient gods.
The fae folk found out I was in league with vampires and demanded a place at the government hall.
And it was about then that I awoke. Feeling very emotional and drained. Somewhere in this dream is a story that I must write. And write it I shall, but not until I finish the million I have already started.

I have no desire to analyze this dream as it was too entertaining to break down into the fucked up nature of my being. I’m sure there is a therapy session waiting for this one. But for now, it is just an amazing story.

Knock Knock. Who's There? Zombie Epiphany. Zombie Epiphany Who?

BRAINZZZZZZZZZ

Yesterday I visited a part of my past best left in my past. Also, I’d like you to know that while I am typing most of this, I’ve been awake for over 24 hours. And under the influence of Tylenol PM because my insomnia just keeps getting worse. If this post seems rambling, that’s why. Or maybe I am just releasing some pent up rage over pieces of my upbringing. Either way, it’s your own fault for reading this as I warned you it is all kinds of fucked up. I am all kinds of fucked up. Well, not in the murderous want to kill you with a sharpened pasta fork kind of way. More in the holy shit this girl has had some weird fucked up shit happen to her in her life and she is amazingly normal-esque in spite of the shit that has happened kind of way. Also, SHE’S A WITCH. Oh my fuck, She. Is. A. Witch.

You know, I told you to turn back in that last paragraph. Carry on if you must.
Walking into a place of worship that caused so many scars in my psyche was like being a rape victim being forced to relive her rape at the scene of the crime. (Sounds dramatic, I know. But it is exactly how I feel. Violated by God’s fan club.) It was nerve wracking to say the least. I have been out of the grip of this religious group for about 25 years now and it still burns me up inside to see the way they treat people outside of their accepted parameters. The reason for my being back there was that a wonderful woman who was a part of my life from the very beginning passed away. For her I showed the respect she deserved and faced up to my reluctance to cross that threshold again. She was a rarity among humans, much less the bible thumping humans. Her existence was a gift from whatever source lies in the ether.
The building itself once held power over me, just as the people inside it did. Strict doesn’t even begin to cover it. Picture being a 10 year old forced to sit in the school library while other kids ate birthday cake or holiday candy. For a child to be so banished from parties by her own parents in front of her peers is more than emotionally crippling, it is downright cruel. The therapy that followed years later was inevitable. I guess one good thing came from all of those embarrassing trips to the library, I learned to love books. Getting lost in fantasy became a way of life for me that continues to this day.
Some of my memories are so tainted with my eventual disgust for what I was forced to endure that I block out a majority of the details. I remember asking questions and getting stock answers that never made any sense to me. The contradictions were apparent before I knew what the word contradiction meant.
I’ve touched on my religious upbringing in previous posts so I won’t bore you with an abundance of repeat information.
The issue that has been at the tip of my tongue for weeks now (ok, let’s face it, decades now) is the cult mentality of the group. If you know me, you will know the religion I speak of. If you do not, I then you can insert any organized religion you like. Most of them have the same basic shortcomings. The human tendency to judge then lord there beliefs over you as if it makes them superior to you. It becomes even worse if you have been associated with their group previously. Then they take the ‘shun the nonbeliever’ attitude and label you a traitor to their crown of thorns. I think in their minds you become worse than a murderer and must be avoided for fear of contamination of the entire flock. I have discovered that logic equals contamination.
What I have witnessed lately is the most unchristian behavior of so called christians. I myself am not a so called christian, but that does not mean that I don’t respect or acknowledge the Christian pantheon. To treat a person like garbage during a time of crisis is not what I read in the teachings of the man they call Christ. I also remember from my Bible reading days that one should not judge without acceptance of being judged oneself. And holding a grudge against someone who sinned as a teenager for 20 years is a bit excessive. Then blaming the person who sinned for not wanting to continue to be brainwashed and emotionally tortured by the religious cult that villainizes you. It is a sick cycle of petty attitude that really boil down to wanting to hold power over everyone else in the false name of Christianity. Who makes good decisions when they are a teenager? Not any that I have ever known, especially not me. Really, I made some after school special sized mistakes when I was an angsty youth.
So now here we are 20+ years later, a group of children raised to become the next generation of ‘Go Forth And Preach It Christians’. All finding our own paths in this life, none of them within that original dogma we were force fed. What does that say? That an entire generation found the restrictive judgemental regime to be a mountain of pompous egos systematically set to destroy individuality? Yes I am angry. I have been playing nice for so long because I didn’t want to rock my mothers belief system too harshly. But after crossing that threshold again as a free thinking adult I saw their real faces. The faces of fear. Not of me fearing them. But of them fearing anything different and out of their realm of explanation. These are the faces of the men and women who set about destroying the world through such times as the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch trials. Some are good people being controlled like puppets of a cult-minded society. Others are not so good and are perfect candidates for the misery they inflict on others.
I find it hard to face the faces that looked at me with such disdain as they did yesterday. I walked in to that building with my sister and a few others who felt as betrayed by them as I do. We stood together (some of us literally stood together) united in not letting them in to bully our brains. The brainwashing was wiped from me long ago, but pieces still surface. Once in a while a voice that is not my own whispers words from that long ago place. I like to call it our club of disillusionment. We grew up to be part of that scary world we were warned against; a polytheistic witch, a criminal, a lesbian, a bunch of fornicators, a few still searching for their sins, and multiple rejected members of said Christian society.

I feel those old resentments rising up in my throat like bile. The taste so acidic that I might choke. But this is me we are talking about, while swallowing down that acrid childhood I noticed that some of the basic canon of this organization seem very much like awaiting to be turned into a zombie. I couldn’t help but get the giggles during the singing one of their songs(hymns to any other organization) talking about God raising the dead to walk again on earth. That sounds exactly like a zombie raising to me. It may not have been the first time I noticed that Jesus was a zombie, but it was the first time I realized that there would eventually be a joyous army of zombies rising after the world ends. Quite a visualization really. So I left that foreboding building a little less traumatised with the knowledge that I will survive that particular zombie apocalypse because I am a lowly sinner. Or should I say zombie Armaggedon.

Later in the the day, I also learned, via autocorrect, that my current state of existence has a name and her name is Myra. So after a few hours of contemplation, I have come to the conclusion that I will call my world Myra and all who want to be a part of my world will now be known as The Fellowship of Myra. Or for short F-Myra. Possibly for shorter FM. Needless to say, Myra is a shiny place where magical creatures abound and stories never end. Glitter, rainbows, and an occasional zombie uprising fill the streets of Myra.

Taming My Inner Elephants And Becoming My Childhood Heroes, 80's Style.

Danny DeVito not included...
When I was a youngster coming into humanhood in the pixelated aura of silver screen heroes I wanted to grow up to be Joan Wilder. An unassuming sexy writer who finds herself entrenched in adventure and a love affair in a far off land. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be her? I had this fantasy that if I wrote stories and epic adventures my very own Jack Colton would find me. He’d be unable to resist my shy witty charm. We would run through a jungle dodging danger at every turn.
Then I grew up. I forgot that I wanted to be Joan Wilder. I forgot about writing stories for years. It’s funny, it was when I went back to school to become a nurse that I remembered that I wanted to write. I never really stopped writing. I just forgot that I wanted to make it more than a stress reliever. More than a hobby. I have been writing words on paper since I was 5 years old. The words I wrote made other people happy. Teachers were impressed with my words. Local papers published my poems.
Then I grew up. Life became a constant struggle to pay bills. Writing was an occasional past time. Eventually it was just a long ago dream. The girl who wanted to write stories never became Joan Wilder. She became me, the girl who write stories once in a while. The only difference is that now I don’t want to be a fictional character from a 80’s film. I want to be Amy the writer who finds her own adventures and writes about them. I have so many stories fighting for release from my head that my problem becomes a matter of focus. I start writing a piece of each story rarely finding an ending before the next story finds it's way out. These days I rarely go for more than a few hours without writing words on paper.
This is where the wild elephant comes charging into my brain's little word village. (I have a few villages inside my head. One specifically for Elvis Impersonators. But that's not important now.) When I was studying with Buddhist monks they told me a story about meditation and how the mind during meditation is a wild elephant raging through, untamed, damaging all in it’s wake. This is how all of the stories in my mind feel. They are wild elephants trampling there way out. In order to be what I want to be when I grow up I need to become an elephant trainer. I have to tame the elephants or I will never be the Amy version of Joan Wilder. Yes, I still write for myself. To make me happy and somewhat stress free. But now I feel compelled to make my stories available for others to read. The concept is intimidating to say the least. I do not like the whole publishing world and it's elitism. Nevertheless, it’s a calling. I’m finally old enough to make a go of it without fear of rejection. Well, mostly without fear of rejection. Let's say it's fear of rejection with a side of holy shit people will know shit about me and be all judgy about it.
All of these thoughts have been coming to me lately in the wake of death. The deaths of a few friends that made a huge impact on my life. It brought to the forefront of my mind the importance of being true to myself. My wants, my needs, my desires are viable entities worthy of coming to fruition. Life is way too unpredictable to sit around wanting things that I’m too scared to pursue. It’s time to actually finish what I start. Maybe enter a writing contest or dip my toes into the publishing world. Intimidating or not, I want to try. I have managed to finish four short stories so far. So maybe I can collect one fragmented thought at a time. Taming each elephant with a resolution to become the hero of my own adventure story.
I have no desire to be the next great American novelist. That’s not my style. I just want to entertain others with the stories that entertain me, the stories that keep me sane with their whimsical insanity. Maybe I will become Joan Wilder after all.

Next up in Lizzard world... how I plan to become a time traveller ala Marty McFly style and possibly a vampire hunter Frog Brother's style. Or I could find a pirate's treasure like a mutha fuckin' Goonie.

The Fuzzy Lizzard Blog

An Optimist Versus A Stupid World

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