Institutionalized soul murder.

LuckyOtter offers a detailed indictment of the direction of our society.

Lucky Otters Haven

“If you’ve been following me for some time now, you’ve likely noticed the absence of optimism & hope. While my wife is at work, and my son is in school, I just cry. I’m trying to hide it from them, but they know. I just want to leave this country before I’m destroyed.”  — Twitter user

If you think statements like this are unusual, I can assure you they are not.

Several days ago, Jussie Smollet, “Empire” actor, singer, director, and photographer, was brutally attacked by a couple of Trump supporters wearing MAGA hats (the new KKK hood).  The assailants tied a rope around the man’s neck, yelled racial and homophobic slurs at him, and poured bleach on him.    As the assailants left, they yelled “It’s MAGA country now.”   Smollet’s injuries were severe enough to require hospitalization.  This was a hate crime and most likely an attempted lynching.   Trump…

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Narcissist parents demonize their own children.

LuckyOtter brings back an excellent discussion of narcissistic parents.

Lucky Otters Haven

Originally posted on March 17, 2015

Most parents like to tell cute and funny stories about when their children were young, or brag about their school accomplishments or tell sweet stories that show their child in a flattering or loving light. They are also proud of their children when they’re kind and nice to others. That’s the way things should be.

Not for narcissistic parents though.

Narcissists who “erase” memories of their children.
Some narcissistic parents don’t like to talk about their children at all. It’s as if they erase any memories of their offspring’s childhoods and don’t want to be reminded of it. It’s weird. My malignant cerebral narcissist sperm donor used to get bored and annoyed if I talked about the children when they were young. Inexplicably, he couldn’t stand it and became annoyed when I wanted to put some of their baby and early school pictures around…

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Candice Louisa Daquin Reviews the Myths of Girlhood

One remarkable poet reviews another.

Indie Blu(e) Publishing

Christine Ray is an extremely rare creature, seemingly transplanted from another age and time, in that she knows absolutely no bounds and will persevere through any obstacle and has the passion of a seventeenth-century bard in her poetic composition and expression.

In today’s saturated world of online bloggers most of us have read competent even exciting authors but few stay with us, underneath the skin. To achieve that, a writer must have captured the moon and control the tides. We live in an impermanent world where we change our fascinations as often as our clothing, loyalty, and fidelity are almost dead. For a writer to clamber from obscurity and retain our fascination seems a heroic feat, more often we have moments of desire for a certain writer and they are forgotten as the next one comes along. Commitment to their art may ensure a writer is briefly remembered again if…

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The fire next door.

LuckyOtter – Fire in the night

Lucky Otters Haven

About six AM yesterday morning a loud noise woke me up.   At first I thought it was thunder, and then I pulled back the curtains and looked out the window.  It was still dark outside, but the small four unit apartment building next door was in flames.

I made the call to the fire department, and apparently no one else had bothered to, because later on in the news story,  it said”the call came when the fire was already in an advanced stage.”

We were lucky.   There is a large tree in our yard that almost touches the roof of the apartment buildings, and there was shrapnel falling off the flaming roof into the bushes below and even the grass.   The fact there’s been so much rain was probably the reason the fire didn’t really spread once it touched the grass.  But if that tree had caught flame from the…

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Guardian – Thursday photo prompt: Snowfall #writephoto

Jan Malique – An unbinding

Strange Goings On In The Shed

Image: Sue Vincent

My response to Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt. A romantic little tale from one old romantic. 😉

Thursday photo prompt: Snowfall #writephoto

She mourns,

Weeps tears of ice and snow,

Emotions caught in transient matter.

He lies enraptured,

Silent to entreaty and admissions of love,

What an eternity her vigil has endured,

A tale of ancient romance spun from dreams and stardust,

All but forgotten in modern times,

Yet ancestral memories call,

Ask for rebirth of ways of old,

Ask for Old Ones to rise once more.

The priestess stops, unable to proceed further as the words in the scroll finish abruptly. Regardless, her journey ends here, they have been found. She lets out a deep breath, releasing long-held emotions. Icy tears slide down her face. She feels them disinterestedly, this is no time for vulnerability. One last task to perform, then release waits.

The snowfall provides a cloak…

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The writing process.

LuckyOtter presents a chart sure to be appreciated by all writers.

Lucky Otters Haven

Yup, this pretty much covers it.

(source unknown)

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January 24: Flash Fiction Challenge – The Collector of Records

Jan Malique – Stories in the clay

Strange Goings On In The Shed

January 24, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about shards. You can write about the pieces, the item they once were, or who picks them up and why. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by January 29, 2019.

Here’s my offering for Charli’s challenge this week. Quite a poignant idea to work with. Please do visit the Carrot Ranch to read the other entries.

January 24: Flash Fiction Challenge

The woman sits on the dirt surrounded by pottery shards. Archaeological artefacts that will be pored over in minute detail and eventually catalogued.

Her fingers touch each piece reverently, urging them to tell their story. They answer, awed by the presence of this woman.

She’s known as The Collector of Records, one who records and preserves. A task undertaken since the Universe was birthed from the thoughts of the Cosmic Consciousness.

As for now…

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Indie Blu(e) Publishing Releases The Myths of Girlhood

Christine Ray – Her new book is available

Brave & Reckless

I am thrilled to announce the release of my second book of poetry and prose by Indie Blu(e) Publishing, The Myths of Girlhood.

From the Back Cover:

Imagine that Myths of Girlhood is a tapestry; feel the varying textures, and observe the movement of its patterns. In your hands, you hold the fibers of Christine E. Ray. For this book is much more than an arrangement of words. Myths is an experience—an exploration of madness and strength of will, illogic, and rationality, all of which coexist inside a woman who is unafraid to let her soul speak.

We were introduced to her exquisite truth-telling in Composition of a Woman. Myths of Girlhood is not a mere continuation, but a glass breaking roar.       

The Myths of Girlhood is available on Amazon in print and Kindle versions.

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Should I add cartoons to my posts?

LuckyOtter – Cartoons?

Lucky Otters Haven

Throughout history, people have sometimes gotten their best ideas from dreams.    For me, my dreams were never transferable to the real world, but I just woke up from one that could be.

Back in my early 20s, I drew cartoon panels of a young woman who was a kind of depiction of myself.   I put her into exaggerated real life situations, sort of humorous “graphic novels.”   I gave the main character my initials at the time “S.K.” a/k/a “The Loser.”  (I had such great self esteem, didn’t I?)  A couple of years ago I dug the cartoons up and  actually thought they were quite good, if a little dated (they were drawn in 1981).

Here are the links to the two posts that show both “graphic novels.”   There are only two of them.  For some reason, this was a hobby I never pursued but perhaps I should have.

The…

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She wasn’t Mary Oliver

The Green Eyed Girl – The Absence of mother love

greeneyedgirl79

What did she say that particularly perturbed and hurt you? The invisible therapist in my empty chair asked

did she grind you to powder with the mortar of her disregard?

chop you finely into translucency with her polished metzaluna

or leave you gasping on rocks

the fish with hook

stinking the quayside with

unwanted breath failing

she wasn’t Mary Oliver but if she were what would she have said?

smoothed your high brow and translated those

apparent manifestations of hate

into paper boats

each one containing a secret

she despised her milk smudged mother

who cried frequently at

little bidding

saw it as a weakness

because her grandmother never respected

unwanted children who disfigured her

waist line

so the little child and her elder

ganged up against the easily tearful

and flung her out

when you came

you who reminded her of nothing before

with a large head that split…

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