The Follower

Men sat around the kitchen table, a rough hewn surface littered with half glasses of rum and sturdy mugs of tea. The blue tinged air swirled on eddies of laughter and currents of disbelief.

Mick Devine was the next to speak. His story was that of a man dead this 6 months, a man who was always the first to lend a hand to a neighbour, pour a ‘drop’ for the unexpected visitor, and usually the first to laugh at himself if the opportunity arose.

The story begins.

Tom 'Fox' Hynes had gotten a ride as far as Riverhead after a long shift on the highroad, and sure it would only be a short hour jaunt 'round the harbour now. He pulled his jacket closer around his neck, it was a fine fall evening, but the wind had that bite to it. The houses were pockets of light where wood smoke unfurled over sturdy salt box houses. A full moon shone just out of reach, and leaf bare branches left gnarled shadow fingers reaching out for unwary passersby.

Fox drew a deep breath, cold aching in his throat, and thought about the best way to travel. Old Man Barnes's small bridge was out - not a consideration during the day but the sharp rocks and deep pool were not to be dared at that time of night. Going past Rogers' meant a slight chance of a wetting up to the ankles, but the tide was low, the way was flatter than a flounder, and he'd be home in jigs time by cutting straight across that way.

Fox scrambled down the bank. During the daylight this place was a fine sight, and with the moon so high it was nearly as bright, even with a slight orange cast now visible over her face. Fox wound his way through the estuary, sometimes leaping from rock to rock and occasionally walking through tough seaside grass that tugged at his boots. He was just past Turr Island when he heard faint footsteps behind him. He turned, a greeting tugging at his lips, but there was no one there.

Wisps of clouds began to gather in the sky, playing hide and seek with a red tinged moon. Fox looked at the way he had come. The sound could have been an echo from around the harbor, or perhaps his ears were playing tricks on him. Funny how the oh so familiar now had a sinister cast; creaking branches from the trees, an owl call, the whisper of dead leaves, all inviting a creeping dread.

Fox turned to his path home once more, he hadn't taken more than ten steps when he heard it again – the footsteps, now louder, now closer. He spun on his feet. The moonlight showed nothing but an empty, echoing path. Thoughts of stories, and long forgotten childhood fears began to arise. He needed to get home, he needed to get to safety. He took longer strides, more chances, and still there were the following footsteps, even faster, now even closer. So close.

Heart clenching, breath heaving, Fox jumped the last few feet of the beach path. His left boot stuck slightly, or was it something grabbing at his heels? Like the scalded cat Fox took off for home, fear driven, knowing that just one look behind him would be the last.

Was it the long dead Masterless Men, pressed into service by the British Navy, looking to add to their eternal crew? Or the ghostly shades of the three children, lost as they jumped the ice pans, wanting the comfort of a warm soul?

Beside the woodstove the men waited with anticipation. What had happened to Fox? Did he make it? Was he found in a cold junk in the morning, leaving behind nothing but questions as to his fate?

From the corner came Devine’s dry voice "Sure ya knows that it was just his own imagination that got to him in the end of it all. 'Twas nuttin but his own bootlaces slapping again’ his heels!”

Roars of laughter rang out and glasses raised. “To Fox! says Mick. “And his boots!” from the quick-witted young man sitting on the edge of the wood box.

All hands checked the state of their laces before heading home. Just in case.



Reposted from Brain Droppings

The Wilds

With my feet planted firmly I survey the panoramic view before me. Tall grasses bending in the wind, flashes of paths made by wildlife as the waves of verdant green surge and fall.

Wildflowers dot the vista, vibrant jewels glowing in the sun. The wild tangle of a vine winds, climbing the tree, reaching towards the sky.

I look down, the yellowgreen of roots turning to emerald about knee height, vibrant leaves that unfurl and bask.

I really need to mow my lawn.

From the Zombie Next Door

It's not easy being a dead guy.

I mean there I was minding my own business in Homes & Despots, picking out the HOA approved mailbox, when a shuffling orange vested minion drifts by and just chomps away at my arm!

I spoke to his manager, who only drooled and grunted. I guess minimum wage monkeys are worth exactly what you pay them. I started to feel like I was coming down with something (almost like that time when I ate that Kow Pow or Som Wow chicken at that hole in the wall restaurant) so I grabbed the damn regulation mailbox and went home. I noticed my neighbour was looking out his window. Idiot. Who the hell does he think he is, always looking like that? A wave of sickness rolled over me and I went into the house.

That was days ago. Now everything is a blur. My fever rises and rises, I hear my wife talking, talking always talking. She stops when I take a nip at her and screams something about going home to her mother.

The neighbour is watching me again.

I try and take out the garbage but stop when I realize I'm eating it.

I just want to go to where there is food. I know the shiny box outside can take me, but it won't do what I want. I pound on it in frustration.

The neighbour is watching.

I think I'll eat his fucking brain.


See the original post that inspired this one @

The Zombie Next Door

The Path

The next step is both a begining and an end, the future can unfold in front of me while the past gets lost in the mist.

Possibilites wind through the trees and drift on the air, if I'm brave enough I'll take the wisps and make them concrete.

Is it dawn's light or evening's glory that illuminates the air? Does it matter?

No. What matters is the step, if I'm brave enough to take it.




...this picture was amongst one that was in an email attachment so I can't credit it or say where it was taken...only you can decide where it takes you

Plan - Read / Write / Review

I have the best intentions I really do. I enjoy writing, I especially like it when an idea, the passing notion blooms into something that has meaning. I'm often baffled after the fact when I read back, questioning "I wrote that?" "where did that come from". A spur of the moment idea seems to work best for me, not much prep time (I blame those last minute English assignments in high school), the bare outline/brief to complete and I'll get something out, on paper, in the ether to be viewed.

I adore reading, I can be obsessive about the books/storylines I do enjoy the most. I think I could get some good solid practice by writing reviews of some of my most favourite books. I think I'll try that in the next few weeks and see what happens.

I've course I'm a procrastinator, so I may never get around to it. I'll get the reading in for sure, I do have my priorities.

~Me

The Bottom of My Glass - Wine as a Writing Prompt

To be frank it was quite full.
I know I started in moderation.
Turns out I really don't have that inclination.

The label spoke of hints and flavours.
I just want the plot to savour.

I devour, in reading the work of others.
Too bad it can be measured in hours.

I'll raise my glass one last time.
Wishing you well and stories galore.

I'll be in the aisles waiting for more.

...................................................................


Holy Carp and assorted other expletives Laurita! How the frack do you write co-hesive and coherent poetry. My little attempt is neither and I'm in a cold sweat here!

That being said I have to give a big shout out to all the writers who I love to read. Both novel, blog, internet posts, post it notes and email and IM messages.

Most recently (as in last week) I had the pleasure of reading Magic Bleeds by Ilona Andrews, this was the fourth installment of a series that I've been waiting rather impaitently for; with incessant checking of my online order status in the last weeks for about a year!

I just am enthralled with the art of writing, and it is an art. My hat is tipped to all who have that magic that runs in their veins that allows them to throw words together to paint entire worlds.

Ah well you need the consumer. I'm a great consumer....wine, books, food, books, wine, books about food, books about wine.

~Me

Tales from the step...

I moved in December, from a middle of it all, see everything centre city location to a still centre but way more residential area of the city.

I just want to make sure I never forget the years I spent with a view. I sent the below to my best friend after just one of the goings on. This happened late summer 2009 I think.



Soooo it's 410am this morning I was awakened by the dulcet tones of a group drunken guys either singing acapella as they made their ways to home and hearth (more likely couch and pass out) or perhaps they had gotten a collective boot to the crotch. Rather Screechy they were.

Speaking of screechy the draahma continued very shortly after, I heard the distinctive yowl of one of the neighborhood alley cats (human variety) I guess she had broken up with her girlfriend (Again) and she was kicking her out (Woman 1 & Woman 2)

W1 "If I ever sees you in my house again, if I ever sees you in my fing house by da F" "Get da F out"

The witty response to this opening sally near drove me from my bed...in laughter.

W2 "Lizzy!"
W1 "Gay!!"
W2 "Whore!!!"

I peeked out the window to see W2 trotting down Cookstown with several bags and if I'm not mistaken..no shoes on her feet. Makes me wish I could identify this people in the daytime but it does appear as if sunlight does repel certain groups...vampires...Bill searchers, Flaming Hula Hoop dancers...Feuding lesbians.