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Minor Update

Last night I finished with about 2200 words. I crawled through the first part because I generally find it difficult writing a certain character. What's also delaying me is the notion of world building. It takes time and I want to get it right so the process is a slow one.

Isn't it funny how things happen while writing? Last night, typing along, blissfully having MC and her crew run for their lives and boom...out of a gorgeous, deadly blue tree. Blue tree? Deadly blue tree? Folks, I have no clue, but I'm going with it.

Don't you just love a determined, stubborn muse? Last night, mine got ballsy. Love that.



Painting Stories #17

I have no excuses, except to say..."procrastination is a helluva drug."

Warning, this image is pretty disturbing and was taken from here.

What I got (part of the WIP):

It begins with only the faint echo of the willow branches splintering in the gusts. Small leaves swirl on the wind and fall into the cave opening, still, like the creature, on the damp floor. Then, the formless figure convulses, pulses into a thin outline— bone, then muscle, blood and muck— until It stretches fingers and limbs, pumps blood, expels an awkward wheeze. Without a backward glance at the Master, or the darkened ground that was its bedrock, It traverses time, space and enters Man's dominion.


Zombie Stories and Chocolate Worship

Because I was asked to write a zombie story. I can't seem to break out of the drama, (or my pathetic need for approval), here's a wee bit of the story I'm currently calling "Samson."

Anissa had no clear memory of rain. Thick clouds of moisture and bolts of thundering white light were specters from her dreams, like the dim recollection of straits and streams time parched of water and life. There, at the mouth of the empty creek, she found Harding lying face down. Unconscious. She watched the men walking away from him— men he’d once called brothers, men who’d followed the now cataleptic man into a battle no one could win. He’d been their leader and Anissa thought, perhaps, leaving his thin body in the dry earth was a punishment. Judgment sent for his failures, for theirs, at believing victory was at all possible.

Well now. That's enough of that. On to today's Chocolate Worship. Feast, children, on the below yumminess that will do nothing but sate you and widened your butt. Le sigh.

Chocolate Covered Marshmallow Cookies


  • 3 cups flour
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 3/4 teaspoon baking powder
  • 3/8 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
  • 12 tablespoons butter
  • 3 eggs, whisked together
  • Homemade marshmallows, recipe follows
  • Chocolate glaze, recipe follows


Blend the dry ingredients in a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Add the butter and mix on low speed until sandy. Add the eggs and mix to combine. Form the dough into a disk, wrap and refrigerate at least 1 hour and up to 3 days. When ready to bake, grease a cookie sheet or line it with parchment paper or a nonstick baking mat. Heat the oven to 375 degrees F.

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to 1/8-inch thickness. Use a cookie cutter to cut out small rounds of dough, 1 to 1 1/2 inches. Transfer to the prepared pan and bake until light golden brown, about 10 minutes. Let cool to room temperature.

Pipe a "kiss" of marshmallow onto each cookie. Let set at room temperature for 2 hours.

Line a cookie sheet with parchment or a nonstick baking mat. One at a time, gently drop the marshmallow-topped cookies into the hot chocolate. Lift out with a fork and let excess chocolate drip back into the bowl. Place on the prepared pan and let set at room temperature until the coating is firm, about 1 to 2 hours.

Note: if you don't want to make your own marshmallows, you can cut a large marshmallow in half and place on the cookie base. Heat in a preheated 350-degree oven to slump the marshmallow slightly, it will expand and brown a little. Let cool, then proceed with the chocolate dipping.

Homemade marshmallows:

  • 1/4 cup water
  • 1/4 cup light corn syrup
  • 3/4 cup sugar
  • 1 tablespoon powdered gelatin
  • 2 tablespoons cold water
  • 2 egg whites
  • 1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Homemade Marshmallows: Combine the water, corn syrup, and sugar in a saucepan, bring to a boil until "soft-ball" stage, or 235 degrees on a candy thermometer. Meanwhile, sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water and let dissolve. Remove the syrup from the heat, add the gelatin, and mix. Whip the whites until soft peaks form and pour the syrup into the whites. Add the vanilla and continue whipping until stiff. Transfer to a pastry bag.

Chocolate glaze:

Chocolate Glaze: Melt the 2 ingredients together in the top of a double boiler or a bowl set over barely simmering water.


A snippet from the WIP

Just a small one...would love your reactions:

“I wish to know of your wedding night, of her body and skin of—can you recall something as simple as that? It was so long ago.”

But to Ludas, it was not simple and not so easily forgotten. Of course he remembered that night. He could recall, with perfect clarity, the frown Lorelei wore when they were married. He could remember the veil covering her beautiful face, how her long, ginger hair stood out, glowed behind the delicate fabric. She was so young, ignorant of her own body, her own beauty and he wanted her from the moment of her creation. She would have no childhood, was manifested fully grown, as all Muse were, born of thought and imagination, of logic and pure intent.

His sister Fae, Lailah, imparted Lorelei with beauty and poise. From Gavreel, she was given kindness and tenderness. Hamael bequeathed her with reason, Liwet, creativity. Rahael and Ambriel endowed in Lorelei loyalty and tolerance, Picious, dispensed cunning and Ludas, himself, instilled in her intellect. She was their greatest creation, a Muse whose endowments exceeded all others, one that commanded adoration, attention. How could such a creature be so easily forgotten? How could Ludas not instantly covet her for himself?

“Tell me, Ludas, please.” The Queen did not often beg, only when she was desperate for more Draught and so, Ludas, eager to appease her, to assure her loyalty, humored Zezolla.

“I took her into my chamber, soon after we were married.” At this, the Queen’s hold on his arm tightened. “I could not wait for the festivities to end. It had been many years I desired her, knew she had been designed for me alone.” He thought back, remembered her kindness, how she tolerated others attentions, so many wanted her, but it was Ludas who won her over. “She was crying, but was not overcome by it. I sought to make her comfortable and so I made her drink Rowan wine. By her third goblet, her tears diminished.”

“Surely she was innocent, nervous.”

“Perhaps. Yes. I’m certain of it.”

“And then, you kissed her?”

“I did. Her lips were soft, like a plume and she tasted of the wine and something else, honeysuckle, perhaps. The Muse are a queer sort— creatures of such imagination, such passion, but Lorelei is different. So tender, yet obstinate, defiant.”

The Queen laughed, her voice lulled and hazed by the Draught. “She did not refuse you?”

Ludas smiled, his eyes stared ahead, remembering, became unfocused, as the specters of the past, of that first kiss, returned. “No. Not that night. She was quite—amiable.”

Zezolla moaned, a low, rasping sound that relaxed Ludas. Her touch tapered and she lay back, away from him, but Ludas was caught in the remembrance of Lorelei. He sat staring, focusing on her face, on the smooth contours of her skin, reddened by the wine, how her breath rolled against his face. He remembered her touch, the taste, again, of her skin and closed his eyes at the thought.

“Such beauty,” he told her. He whispered tributes against her breasts, venerated the curves of her hips, the sculpted form of her stomach, the soft texture of her legs, praised himself, his brethren, for their perfect creation. Then, when his body met hers, when he had taken from her what he knew was meant only from him, his heart raced, palpitated into a thundering rhythm, harder and harder. His breath became labored, his pulse strummed into a single, heavy beat and he watched his bride, stride atop him, stare down, no emotion on her face, save alarm, perhaps wonder. His mind swam, throbbed and fear sieged him, corrupted the meeting of their bodies.

“What is this? What have you—” He slipped away from consciousness, faded until all he could manage was to reach for her. He thought, to touch her face, to feel that streak of power, of dazzling light that encircled her, would be his salvation, that his pulse would slow, that warmth would return to his cooling body.

It did not.

By morning, she had vanished and he found himself frail, pathetic and impotent of his power. He discovered his fairies, his loyal masses, in the same weakened state, unable to fly, to evoke, to pull from themselves their most rudimentary abilities. And the Muse, his collected congregation of unwilling laborers had vanished along with her, absent forever from his control.


Painting Stories #16

What I got:

Science birthed the flying vessels, the supremacy of ships and weapon that would maim, would kill all those who opposed him. His brothers and sisters had sent Lorelei to betray him, to steal away his power, his magics and those of all loyal to him. But, they had not considered his influence. They had not remembered his cleverness and, over time, he’d brought forth to his city, the steam engine, the canon, great machines of warfare and violence. Soon, he would have them, he would regain his strength and destroy those who had weakened him. The battle brimmed over the horizon, bubbling with the hope of destruction, but first, he would have Lorelei returned to him.