Beach photography

Some fine art photography to accompany my writing -
Fine Art America

Yule Log

We work many holidays. Traditions are difficult to maintain with shifting schedules, but one Yuletide custom is mandatory. We remove the branches from our tree to make our Yule log, and every December 21st, either morning or evening, we light a fire with last seasons tree and raise a glass to the longest night of the year.

Urban Serpent

Snaking his way through the forest of tourists gaping at towering concrete behemoths, he sighted his prey. Struck lightning fast. And slithered away with his prize, his victim momentarily unaware of his bite.

In response to this weekend's Trifextra writing challenge - write a 33-word response using the name of an animal as a verb.  

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/

His True Heart

The books and movies amused him. He wasn’t quite sure which of his incarnations had managed to inspire this mass hysteria, but clearly he would need to take greater care in the future to make sure his personage was less noticeable. 

There were enough differences in the details to assure him that nobody knew the true story. For starters, this whole business about existing in daylight was utter nonsense. Clearly the wishful thinking of an overly romantic female mind. Then there was the setting. He hadn’t set foot in a school in over 200 years, and when he had, girls weren’t even allowed in the building, much less the same classroom. And, no, he absolutely DID...NOT...GLITTER.

But some of the other specifics were uncanny. His preference for the gloom of the Pacific Northwest. His deep connection to his adopted family. His passion for driving expensive sports cars at terrifying speeds. And, oh, yes, his penchant for young, shy brunettes. 

He did love them, perhaps not with the obsessive, everlasting romantic love currently being portrayed by his doppelganger, but it was love nonetheless. He loved watching them from the shadows of the nightclubs, the insecure loners who sat apart from everyone, never dreaming of the passion and adventure that was about to enter their lives. He loved their initial hesitance as he worked to win them over and woo them away from the safety of the crowd. He loved witnessing their shifting emotions as he revealed his true nature to them, from fear to horror to curiosity to fascination to passion. 

And he loved their lives. He loved the rush of energy through their bodies that pulsed with each beat of their tender hearts. He loved feeling that force flow into him, feeling their bodies grow weak and still as he took his nourishment from them. And most of all, he loved the fact that the whole process would be repeated over and over, night after night, starting at the next twilight.

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In response to Week Thirty Nine of the Trifecta Writing Challenge - Your prompt this week is the third definition of:

HEART (noun)

1: a hollow muscular organ of vertebrate animals that by its rhythmic contraction acts as a force pump maintaining the circulation of the blood
2: a playing card marked with a stylized figure of a red heart
3: personality, disposition <a cold heart>

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
• The word itself needs to be included in your response.
• You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above. 
• Only one entry per writer.

The Handkerchief

The lace edged handkerchief was the story of her life - the ‘something new’ tucked in her trousseau, the touch of comfort drying her daughter’s tears and now her banner waving one final goodbye.

Written for the Trifextra Week 28 Challenge -  

Give us 33 words (exactly) that tell us three different uses for one object. 

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/

Far behind...

I am so far behind.

Look at all these blogs and posts and voices demanding my attention. Stories that are so compelling, so raw, so true that OF COURSE they had to be written, there was absolutely no other choice. Who am I to think that I have anything new to add, anything different to say, any story to tell that hasn't been told a thousand times over?

I am a writer.

Such a glamorous title, what images leap to mind? I know what portrait I would prefer to paint - the free spirited thinker off on adventures around the world, stopping periodically to check emails and dash off witty and charming blog posts about living life on my own terms, answering to nobody, kicking 9-to-5 to the curb and laughing on my merry way.

Here's the current picture - Thursday night on the couch in sweatpants and a stained sleeveless T-shirt, MacBook on the lap, merlot at my side. The Olympics are on TV, inspiring and depressing at the same time. These children are so talented, so magical, and they still have so much of their lives ahead of them. Why didn't I keep up with gymnastics as a kid? Why didn't I at least keep exercising? Why did I have that 3rd slice of pizza?

I am so far behind.

Far behind the life I really want to lead. Far behind in the blogosphere. Far behind in my posts and pictures and practices.

Only one thing to do.

Write, write, write.

Time for the incredible come from behind victory that leaves the spectators breathless and exhilarated, and elevates the winner to instant godhood.

Time for that perfect 10, that match point, that overtime goal.

Time for me to quit watching Olympic coverage 12 hours a day.

Time to write.

You'll be seeing a crazy quilt of commentaries as I find my way through the mass of information in my brain. Fiction, truth, a combination of both, perhaps even poetry and songs. I just have to keep...on...writing. Perhaps if I can pull some of these stories out of my head and commit them to electrons, I'll find the space to clear a path, find a direction, choose a subject and stick to it. Until then, I'll be writing, writing, writing.

There's a gold medal for writing, right?

Marina

As the car sank, he felt her powerful tail moving beside him as she held his head above the river's surface. “What are you?”, he gasped. She whispered, “Guardian of drivers who text.”