Hearts and Flowers, Blah, Blah

Yeah. I actually wrote a Valentine tale. Weird. By my standards, of course. The tale includes Fiddler-the-Cat (created by Twilight Faerie) and Wilbur. Equipped with a sharp beak (which is uncomfortable when applied repeatedly to your head, especially the way he wields it), Wilbur began pestering me around November last year. Since that time, he’s taken a few different forms. This is what he looks like now:

Wilbur & Betty Bee

My original pen drawing of Wilbur and his latest squeeze, Betty Bee. Yeah. Betty Bee. Things were running slow in my brain that day and that’s the name I came up with.

You won’t find the Valentine tale here. I wrote it for the fabulous artist group I’m lucky enough to be a member of, Halloween Artist Bazaar. Click on this link or the image below and it will take you straight to the short story “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Valentine Dance.”

Enjoy! And a Happy Valentine-Hearts-Flowers-and-Candy Day to you.

Halloween Artist Bazaar

Lady Bosh Nonscents

Hanging on the walls of the narrow passageway hung row after row of paintings: portraits of saps, fools, and those who in-general carried large rocks in their tiny heads.

 

Continuing along the corridor the King and the Page were drawn to a very curious painting of nothing. Beneath the painting of nothing hung a small brass plaque inscribed with the name Lady Bosh Nonscents. The Castle’s Registry and written histories are quite muddled about her. Some records clearly indicate that no such person ever existed. Other records note that she did exist, but she was quite transparent. So transparent that people bumped into her or sat down on her all of the time. Apparently she had weathered many a bruise, but no matter how loudly she might complain no one could see her injuries, because they simply could not see her.

Lady Bosh appointed herself The Land of Regret’s Royal Traffic Director, presumably in an effort to be noticed: an effort that wasn’t worth the bother. On merely the second minute of the third hour of Lady Bosh’s traffic directing, she was struck by a rambling, sloth-driven, potato wagon. Thumped rather hard, both she and the potatoes flew many feet up in the air. This created quite a stir and potatoes scattered everywhere after having bounced off on many people’s heads. Of course, the entire incident is conjecture, because no one actually saw Lady Bosh fly anywhere; however, in addition to the shrill scream heard, witnesses did spot the stop sign that she had carried shoot up into the sky.

Lady Bosh Nonscents was never found, but happily all of the injured potatoes were recovered and made into an excellent side dish.

~An Excerpt from A Tarryfail, by Intricate Knot

A Painting of Nothing. Actually quite rare, even by today’s standards.

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How much do you love Halloween? It’s the no-pressure-just-fun-candy-and-costume holiday! Come check out the Halloween Artist Bazaar‘s Trick or Treat Giveaway. Sign up is free and painless. Click on the picture below and sign up today!

Harold

Being a writer is like being possessed by a strange (is there any other kind?) beast, who can force you to do its bidding at any hour and any place. This Beast doesn’t care if you’re at your day job, in the middle of a dinner party, rock climbing, giving the baby a bath, or even asleep after a way-too-long, punishing day (at the day job). The Beast wakes you up and drags you from your bed with promises of excitement and the possibility of satisfaction. Yeah. Weird, huh? Honestly, honestly the writer has no control over the Beast. Even desperate pleas of tiredness or not-now’s appease it not! 

Why do I call “it” a Beast? What would you call something that drags you out of bed in the proverbial middle of the night? Sue? Kevin? I don’t think so. Actually, I do sometimes call my beast Harold. “Harold” just sounds less intimidating than “Beast.”

Once that Harold (or whatever you call the Beast) grabs you by the throat and forces you down in front of the computer screen, typewriter, pen and paper, you are riveted. You must write whatever Harold tells you to and no breaks are allowed. You are not allowed to eat, answer the phone, clean your kitchen, down an Ibuprofen because your back and neck are killing you from typing away for hours upon hours (even if it is on the same freaking sentence!!!!), or even have a pee. Sometimes, while in the grip of Harold, I find myself forgetting to breathe and suddenly have to gasp for air, as if I were drowning (or being choked). Yay! Whoo-hoo! It is SO way fun being a writer! Sorry, Harold. We humans need to breathe. Not buying it? Look at this way, if I don’t breathe your fun ends. Get it?

Of course, no one else can see this Beast…until you read the writer’s work. Then the Beast is revealed in all its gloriousness (or un-gloriousness, depending). The funny (not really) thing is, there isn’t just one Beast! Oh no. Things couldn’t be that easy, could they? Hell no. Harold is not alone. There are a multitude of Beasts and where Harold leaves off, another is quite happy to take his place. Sadly, sadly the writer’s relationship with the Beast(s) actually begins in fear, runs to excitement, then back to fear and…dependence. It’s all a bit Stockholm Syndrome really. Because you know what happens next? Harold rubs his hands together with glee at this bit! He disappears. Yep. Leaves you hanging. Nasty, bad Harold! So there you are, half way out of a plane, just dangling over the middle of the Sahara (or places much less glamorous, you just never know).

In anguish, you may decide to strike out on your own. Yeah, who needs that freaking Beast anyway? I can do this. Hah! Novice, eh? You can’t go anywhere without the Beast, man. You want to keep it real? Then you have to move with the Beast.

If this all sounds nuts (what? seriously?) then, well it probably IS nuts. But we writers really can’t help it. So read our stuff and have a smidge of pity for us. We may have written this at 7:00 in the morning, after finally dropping off to sleep at 3:00 and left to our Own Devices (sounds totally ominous, doesn’t it?) you begin to jot down this drivel and decide to share it with others and- Crap. Gotta go, Harold is calling…