Friday, January 29, 2016

Reve, Lord Nightmare

The Night Mare's matinee idol son is out past Neverland killing Grumphs as entertainment for the Winkin City screen feed. He first sees Mina when she enters  his nightmare. 

Friday, January 15, 2016


PAP, the name taken from the ancient Paparazzi, a photographer who pursues celebrities to get photos of them.

The word Pap was  derived from a character name in Fellini's La Dolce Vita.

A name given by the Night Mare to babies randomly selected at birth to have cameras implanted in place of eyes. Paps supply the screen feed in Winkin City. Their tongues are removed to improve focus.

DREAM DRIFTER, personal guard to the Night Mare. Imported early in her reign to rid the world of dreamers.

Heron-headed thugs, white-eyed dream addicts in shabby wool overcoats and sunshades. The smell of a Drifter is like wet towels mildewed in a locker.

Squijal, is the term used to describe how a Dream Drifter moves, the way a slug slimes across marble.

*Dream Drifters are seriously allergic to the sweet fruit of the planet. If consumed they grow to 10x their ginormous size and rampage for fun.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

Hawk Eyes

I participated in Woodstock Writer's Story Slams last night. The theme was Very Superstitious.  Great readers, great stories, and I won!  The prize comprised wonderful gifts from local businesses.  Thanks so much for the opportunity!  

This is that story.

You see everything with your hawk eyes, that’s what my Mama said. When you’re told something often enough you believe it. Dogma is like that.

My Mama kept tarot cards wrapped in silk in a lingerie drawer, alongside a vibrator made of smooth yellowed plastic. She said, sex is the strongest magic. I keep my cards in a file drawer next to a bag of runes, frankincense, rolling papers, some candles, and a box of matches. 

The first spell I ever learned was to bring good luck. Making pancakes. Use whole grains to ask the mother planet for her assistance. Request her bounty as you measure the ingredients. Add eggs. That’s the power of Saturn, the great shit disturber, the planet of change, but make sure to grind in a bit of sea salt to neutralize his ego, because it’s enormous. Add vanilla, a little aromatic alcohol to appease the other gods, not too much because you want them sober. Cook them in an iron skillet for its tempered strength. Use honey or syrup to make the sweet luck stick.

My Mama was a mix of Native American, emancipated slave, and Irish. Her grandma was born on the Cherokee Reservation in Tennessee. She married an Irish train man and they raised a clan in North Dakota. My Mama made gri-gri bags. She had dolls with pins stuck in them. Some wore human hair and had fingernail clippings inside. Those even felt unkind. 

A former lady of the evening, a friend of Mama’s, told me that she was often hired by gamblers to bring them luck. She said it was because she was as black as midnight. They’d rub her afro, and sometimes they’d rub their heads up high between her thighs, all for luck. They say that luck is a little sprite who sits upon your shoulder whispering in your ear, or is that genius?

Mama sent me to a convent boarding school when I was 8 to learn the myths and legends to be had about that belief. Water into wine, bread metamorphosed as flesh, saints and miracles, women are chattel. 

Girls from around the world were sent to the convent to learn English and Western manners. I learned about arranged marriages and blood on the sheets, about the isms, racism, classism, and sexism, and about sin, original and not. Mama threw me into that dragon’s lair with intention.  She expected me to learn how to breathe fire, or at the very least to learn its alchemical properties.

I make decisions based on omens.  A deer at my window, owls out in daylight, signs,  old wives’ tales, witchcraft. Witch, from the ancient Anglo-Saxon ‘wicce,’ German ‘wissen,’ ‘to know’ and ‘wikken,’ to divine’. I see with my hawk eyes a world composed of differences -- beliefs, skin tones -- and samenesses -- love and pain, birth and death.

I flick salt over my left shoulder. I think it’s to keep some kind of demon at bay. I eat black-eyed peas at New Year. Always use an old broom to sweep a new house. Horseshoes should be upturned. Never buy opals for yourself. Horoscopes, astrology, psychics, crossed fingers, and wishing on stars. I don’t think that time is kept in clocks, nor that god is confined to religions. Mercury the sign of communication is currently retrograde in Aquarius, the sign of freedom and originality, associated with revolutions, social progress, the new age, and oddly with ankles. Superstitious? Me? Very. It’s the only way I know to believe in belief.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

review - rewire

Nicole Quinn
BlueBarn Productions, 2015, $11
Quinn sets the stakes deliriously high in this final volume of her Gold Stone Girl trilogy, set in a feminist-nightmare dystopian future. The planetary monocontinent is shrinking, and reluctant heroine Mina, gifted with the power of dreaming, is marooned in the land of Disbelief and stalked by the predatory Night Mare. There's imagination and quirky humor for days—talking dresses, male housewives imprisoned by slugs—in this visionary finale to an eye-opening series.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Sulis of the S.U.L.

S.U.L., Suberterranean Upper Lifeform, a government-church acronym given to this species of mole-people.

The SUL are descendants of a thousand multi-ethnic founding families who pioneered the Core of the planet before Ulger blew the blue orb apart, and it reformed as the Pangeic-like continent of Blinkin.

The SUL were rediscovered in 3654 of the Night Mare's reign.

The culture is inward and mystic, influenced by the ethylene laced gas in the air of their underground city. Ethylene, they say, influenced the Oracles at Delphi.

SUL are unwelcome in Winkin City as too delusional. Fantasies are free floating and anyone might catch them.
But the Night mare likes a good oracle, so they are tolerated at the Manus Market and as homesteaders in the ruins Off-right.