Conquest – a micro fiction

Great round globes of metal

(Or something that is quite similar)

Hang in the air, lifeless.


Magnificent silver oranges awaiting

To shed their peels.

3 days. 7 days. 10.

Clear skies one day

The next mere slivers of blue

To be seen through rounded

Pewter worlds sprinkled skyward.

As though they had been there


Now we are the crazed insects

Tiny and insignificant

Dazed by fear

While patiently offering

Our fate for a few more minutes of life.

Pulling tiny pieces of existence off

Future days, wrapped up tight and safe

In these unfamiliar entities

Casting shadows earthbound.

They appear unwearyingly satisfied

To silence

While the weak (though once thought to be victors)

sweat cold sleet

Over goose pimpled flesh

On the inescapable ground below.


Collecting brain-frizz and releasing it.

Admittedly I am a brain-frizz collector. Days stretch by where I have no desire to learn or grow, to read or even write. These are the times when I sit on my phone frying my thoughts with Facebook nonsense and addictive games with bright colors and flashing lights. If I listen just right I could probably hear the sizzle of each brain cell as my endorphins run rampant from reaching a high score. Like yolk hitting a hot pan.

Sometimes it just is too much. The worries that accompany the everyday, the stress of tomorrow, the constant angst that comes with being a business owner. Sometimes everything stacks up so high that not even a good book can show me sanctuary. Sometimes turning the brain off and mindlessly looking at hilarious memes or carelessly stacking colorful blocks to reach a goal is just what I need to get past the hump I find in front of me. Sometimes I just need a pause.

But look, I can clearly see that the continuation of this practice would be insanely unhealthy. I’m not so naive to think that ostriching this shit is going to make any of my mental or emotional baggage disappear. If anything I am just hoping to stack it up up and away like the little blocks I stack in the phone games. This method is unreasonable at best. At worst it is completely delusional. And lets be honest delusion and I go together like spaghetti and meatballs. Or corn and a husk. Or a lava lamp and the goopy “lava” that is inside of it.

The worst part is now. Right now. This precise moment when I realise that I have to stop hiding away from everything. I must confront my stress. I must challenge my worries about the future. I must put down the phone with the Facebook and the games and the other distractions that make life so easy to forget about and I must go out in the world and live.

So I have roughly three hundred unfinished writing projects on my laptop right now and I suppose this is as good of place as any to get started. The realisation that I cannot live on pause for the rest of my life may be a tough one to take but once I fling myself out of it and get back on track I do not regret it. Because it feels good to try again.

Maybe sometimes we all just need a little pause to appreciate the hard work we put into this life.

Seriously you guys, gah! 

You guys, this is Penny. 

She is visiting us for a couple of days while my brother and his family are visiting. I’m pretty sure she is a tiny adorable bear despite everyone else telling me she is a St. Bernard. 

Whatever she is, she’s friggen adorable. 

I’m sure you can understand why I am not able to focus on any serious writing while I have this thing in my midst. 

Funny Fans

I once wrote silly stories. Laugh out loud stories. Stories that could make a reader giggle uncontrollably while the other occupants in the room looked at them as though they were crazy. I use to have a system that worked about 90 percent of the time when attempting to come up with the funny stuff. The rule was this; if it makes me smile it will make others laugh. You never think you are as funny as you actually are so this theory worked well most of the time.

Somewhere between all of the life and the work and the worries and the achievement the funniness has slipped away. It seems that one day I had it and the next day it was gone. Like ice in a glass on a hot day it has melted into me. Forever melding with the other writing things. The seemingly more essential things. Literary guise. Strong metaphors and slick sentences.

The thing is, funny is difficult. Especially funny writing. It is not an easy feat to make a person laugh but also make them think, wow, that was a well written piece—this is a rarity on its own. To throw funny on top of that!? Pure genius. I don’t know how well written my funny pieces were becasue usually when I look back upon my older work I think of it as awful dribble. But my mom tells me it was damn funny, so that must count for something.

I don’t think funny is completely lost to me. Well, at least I hope it isn’t. It may take some work getting her back and on page but I am confident that I can do it. It will be an interesting experiment to mesh the hints of hilarity that I once sprinkled so generously throughout my work with my now more ripened writing style.

Tell me, who are some great authors you know of that have mastered the art of funny? Drop me a comment so I can do a little research in my quest!

Harvesting the Mind

The white of this screen has become pixelated with tiny orange and blue specks throughout it.

I imagine those specks are all of the thoughts and ideas I lose every morning in this time of outward introspection.

I envision the half-thoughts being pulled out ever so slowly.

Tapeworms of the brain. Headed for the glow. If only I could make them stick, I think.

Then at least they will be obvious to everyone else. At least they will be out of me and into the world.

That, however is not how this thing works. This thing that is writing.

Somewhere during the pulling process the thoughts escape my grasp. Slip, slip away.

Hip hip Hooray they cheer because they do not want to be lassoed into screen captivity.

I suspect they end up wherever fleeting daydreams goes to die.

(They probably don’t know that while they applaud themselves valiantly.)

Flecks of thought fragments:

An orange peel shriveled and stiff under the bed post.

A spray of dust particles distorted by sunlight into something entirely changed, a barrier, a wall.

The feel of a friends hug during difficult times.

A dog smile.

Moonlight glistening off rooftop frost.

All lost to the blue and orange specks of color I see upon this screen.

So close but the exact descriptions now lost to me.

Yet imageries sprout like dandelions upon the mind,

And tomorrow’s yield will prove much more fruitful.

At least one must try.

Counting on the Countdown

Does a new year seep in like water over a floor from a leaky faucet? Drowning the old. Cleansing the playing area for a bright future. Or perhaps it rushes us, quick and without hesitation. 11:59pm it is one year and the next moment we find ourselves in a year not yet lived in.

This is why we countdown. We steel our brains for the shock of finding ourselves in future times. But that’s not entirely right is it? Because it feels exactly the same as the year previous had. We walk the same streets. We love the same humans. We say the same things that either get us into trouble or the opposite. And like every New Year’s celebration we talk fervently about how awful the year before was. Pretending it wasn’t exact the same as it had been the year before that and the year before that. Perhaps a few of the nouns change from on year to another but the overall gist, the mindset, usually remains on track.

Or maybe the newness of the year ticks away like a grandfather clock on flowered wallpaper. As soon as the clock strikes midnight the countdown—the real countdown, the big one—begins. Inaudibly we countdown with it because we are programmed to yearn for future days. Each rotation of the Earth brings us closer to enriched lives. Or so we want to believe.

I guess instead of resolutions this year I will make a promise to myself of a different kind. To stop counting down. To stop looking for something else in some near or distant future. To stop running for a finish line that I cannot see because in truth I do not know where it is only that it rests in future days. This year I will learn to appreciate the right now, whatever that may be. To really sit with my kids and listen to their outlandish stories without having a to-do list in the back of my brain. To kiss my husband and simply be there in that moment for as long as we can possibly stand. To write and not have to worry about whether or not the words will ever be published. Just write. To fall in love with the moments that make up this life. The countdown is infinite and none of us have that much time to waste.


Falling Into The New

Walking along a precipice, each edge unknown, you balance ever so carefully. You do not want to fall over one way or another. It has been this way for as long as your memory can recall. Blue sky, thick white and grey clouds cluster at the forefront of your vision. They hang there like cotton candy hangs off a sticky finger. As though it was the definition of forever. You dare not look down. Dare not take a peek at what could be in store if you happen to drop over the brink of your current existence. Because surely you will plummet if your eye line moves from its current course.  So instead you continue to place one foot in front of the other. Prudently employing your surefootedness, although there is no finale in sight.

In fact the triangle skyline in which you balance seems to be decreasing in size as you move towards it. Hot fire flicks in your belly as fleeting horrors of forever tightrope walking begin to spark through the brain. No end in sight. No stable ground. No cartwheels or somersaults. No running. No sprawling. No victory jig once reaching the finish line. The memory of these simple wonders begins to ebb from your conscience with each foot over foot gesture you make. Fear sidles up your hairline like a snake in the bed at midnight.

The slightest breeze washes over your shoulders, just enough to move you slightly to one side. There is not only a shift in your body but your mind as well. In the before times you would have sprung your arms horizontally. Steadied yourself. Heart pumping wildly and praying to a god you barely believe in to not let you fall off the cliff. Do not let me plunge through oblivion, you’d plead with enunciated piousness.

Yet now, as the gust flows through your body you keep your gaze on the blue. Your arms do leave their respective sides but not to steady yourself. This time they aim for flight. The blue, like the triangle skyline begins to decrease. Falling away from you. The previous aim for poise and perfection is sifted out and discarded like clumps of flour too cumbersome to make it through the mesh screen.

You are falling into the strange. Dropping away from what once was and upsurging into openness. Into grand beginnings. Into possibilities. Unmarked exploration. No turning back, no changing course now. Soon you will meet the future and you welcome it with air born arms.


The Cold Cuts Clean Through

Snowflakes (too many to count so I will simply pluralize)

Fly through the dim lamplight outside my living room window.

Live ice particles by the millions slice through glacial twilight.

Severing a once healthy semblance of a sunny future.

Restorative measures will be taken

Once the storm has run its course.

Life rages outside this frame. Battles of survival frenzy for stability.

Hostility winning, taking shape.

Sculpting future days in the brain’s wavelengths

Forever flurries disco-hop over my thoughts

Like lethal icicles dropping from a building side façade

Exploding upon impact with the frosted ground.

The sound of wind through a keyhole

Wakes me from this reverie and the

Flakes still fly outside in their icy state.

And I, must brave the storm.


As the literary fish would sing: Just Keep Writing, Just Keep Writing.

A cold coffee sits to the left of me and I am itchy all over. It is perhaps the worst morning in the history of mornings. I used the wrong laundry detergent resulting in a body wide rash upon my peach sensitive skin. The coffee is cold because I’ve spent the better half of the morning trying to pull something, anything, out of my brain and place it methodically onto the bank page. All the while forgetting about the mug of fuel. And the proverbial trash can is brimming with crumpled up attempts at brilliance.

So I’ve decided to scrap brilliance and just talk. Sometimes just talking is all one can really do. It is becoming increasingly more difficult to find the words to write every day. This is disappointing because I was doing pretty well for a while there. It’s been over a month of writing one hundred words a day and I would have liked to report back that this endeavour has upped my productivity in other writing prospects and I am sailing along in my literary goals. Alas this is not the case. There is just always something that seems to stop me from writing. Something physical, some worry, some state of affairs that I literally have no control over but cannot stop stressing about therefore inhibiting me from writing one single word upon paper due to my brain being so full of other non-matters. Brain clutter. Sometimes it’s not brain clutter, sometimes it is legitimate worries and that deepens the block to extraordinary measures.

It is beginning to feel like this blog is just me posting about being stuck. And that isn’t getting me anywhere now is it?

So what now? Where do I go from here? Do I keep writing, or should I say, do I keep complaining about not being able to write? Do I vow to never write about writing again on this thing? Do I transfer my 100 words a day to some other, more viable, writing endeavor? Who determines what is viable?

Maybe I simply need to up the ante to 500 words a day. Or perhaps drop it to 50? Possibly it is the pressure of the word count which is getting to me. I doubt it. I think that is actually the only thing that keeps me posting every day.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the ache. The ache that is buried under all of the daily worries and strife. The ache that mostly always hides in the private crooks of my mind. The ache that murmurs to me about writing when I am least expecting it. The ache doesn’t come to me now, as I sit here drivelling upon this word processing document. Nor does it let itself be heard when I am attempting to rummage up my latest poem or short story. That would actually be helpful. That would be a great driving force to finish the thing. A vote of confidence to put it out there for others to gobble up. The ache comes to me when I am taking a customer’s order at work. It says, this is all fine and dandy for now Lindsay but you can’t keep running from it forever. Soon you must buckle down, nose to the grindstone. The ache comes to me when I am worrying about my kids. It asks what kind of a role model I am trying to be by shoving aside the one thing I’ve always wanted to be because it is simply too difficult to achieve. The ache thumps and thuds against my chest when I am driving and listening to an amazing audio-book and I think, I want to create something like this. I want to write down worlds.

Yet the muse does not follow upon the coattails of these weary thoughts. I am simply left with all of the daily worries and concerns and an emptiness that seems impossible to fill.

Well that’s about all of the lamenting I have time for today so with that I shall bid you adieu. The coffee needs warming and I’ve seriously got to get some lotion on this itchy skin. Then maybe I will be able to jot a few notes down for later use. Wrangle a few words out. Sling a sentence or two.

Because if I am anything, it is resilient.

Write Prompt: Describe Orange.

The colour orange is elation. Tiny blurring wheels forging headlong amidst uncertainty and anguish. Orange is strong willed. Orange is the colour of children’s exploration in back woods; barefoot and teeming with exhilaration. Ethereal flickers of carroty anticipation twirl out from youngsters’ ears, mist from their mouths like warm breath on a mid-January day. Experiencing life for the very first time.

Orange is the colour of first time lovers on a forsaken seaside; perverse with barefaced lust. Orange are the embers within their mounting fervour. Heating the thing from the inside out. Orange is now. Orange is need. Orange is fuel. Orange is the ache one feels when they know that they are meant for something more. It is a lonely bicycle perched haphazardly at a busy city centre. It has so much more in store for us than what first meets the eye.

Orange is unbidden by social construct. Orange is bold. Moving without reservation. Audacious and unflinchable are those who dare to spread this color across their page. It is the sound of a kettle’s heating element sizzling into action. The heat of a warm drink as it slips down your throat. The punch of flavor that you were not expecting. The satisfaction of surprise.

It is a new beginning after a long and travelled road. Youth born wizened from lifetimes past. Orange is the opposite of contentment. It is urge. It is a desire to discover. Orange is cruelly and exquisitely endless. Orange is the forerunner – a pioneer of hope and exploration.

A peppy pep talk for the ‘ol brain.

Enough with fear! Enough with the worry that sidles up the side of us, immobilizing our every move. Enough with self-doubt. The kind that keeps us uncertain and stabilized to one spot for a lifetime. Enough with hate. Blind, unabashed, fervent hate. Hate that stings its recipients like tiny blades in one million and one places resulting in even more tiny hate daggers thrown its opposite way. Enough with apathy. The shield of aloofness only fools the boobs of this life and you’re not a boob are you? Enough with lethargy. We all are damaged in some way or another, use this time you’ve been given, take chances, and get a little ruffled up in the process. Sitting still never did anyone any good…Well, except perhaps those looking to get overlooked. Enough with complaining. Enough with crying the woes in which no other human has ever had the audacity to be burdened with. Enough with praying for singularity without having to work your ass off for it. Our uniqueness is earned not provided. Enough with wanting for anything without the expectation of trying times ahead. Enough with expectations of others. The idea that you are owed something the same way a family pet is owed a ride ticket for simply having no choice in where it ends up. Well you do have a choice. You do not have the mentality of a dog (I know, I know, they are majestic creatures not to be underestimated) still, you are not a dog. You have the ability to forge your own road ahead. You have the gift of choice. Sometimes a daunting burden, but yours none the less. Enough with all of the trivial concerns which bound you to a less than satisfactory existence. We’ve got one shot at this thing, let’s do it right.

Just a tad of an existential crisis, no big deal.

Perspective is a beautiful thing. I don’t think I get too much of it nowadays. I’ve somehow allowed life to run me over, drag me down into a sinkhole of stressful responsibility and aging obligations. I worry so much about what my next step will be I forget all of the best stuff.

Like the way the kids laugh at my lame jokes and still tell me I’m the funniest. And how my husband stares at me as we watch the tube. He tells me he loves me with such blissful exultation I have never been able to imagine otherwise.

Our home is warm and comfortable on these cold winter days. We have good food to fill our bellies with and clean beds to find security in. Homemade knitted blankets tossed over the back of our couches to insure the utmost of coziness and hot coffee and tea at the ready. Pictures hang upon the wall, they represent us—the love that we all share.

We have a business. A restaurant that is the epitome of a “small business” and though it is taking its time to find its feet our loyal customers still only have the greatest things to say about it. And I know that it will come. All good things do.

However at any given moment I have a minuscule humanoid living in the back of my brain whispering warnings of failure and strife about my life as a writer. Sometimes it gets so carried away I begin hearing loud trumpets and drums parading around in there telling me my time has already passed for such tomfoolery. The smooth bluegrass sounds of the sax will melodically remind me that I am nearly 32 years old and as far as I am aware not able to turn back time. Flutes cheerily spout tunes that tingle between my ears and they ring out in harmony explaining that if it hasn’t happened yet, it likely never will. And one single chime of a triangle compares me to every other writer in history and it tells me I am simply not good enough to publish.

These are the thoughts that plague my brain as I go about business pretending to be a normal person.

But it’s not really the fear of failure that I’m so worried about. Because I’ve not failed if I only continue to write even one lovely word a day. That much is actually clear in this topsy-turvy brain of mine. I’m worried about my writing going mute. Losing interest. Losing the words, the stories that pop up in my brain. How long does it take for it to simply shut off? How many rejection messages is my quota for one lifetime?

These are the notes that sing loudest from the quartet inside my head. My better judgement tells me that it is a silly worry because right now, right here the thought of not writing seems far-fetched, implausible.

Then the perspective rinses over me, cleaning these thoughts of self-destruction away if only for a moment. The perspective reads to me some of my earlier writings and I see how far I’ve come. There is a distinct evolution of writing, of aptitude there. This gives me hope. If only for the fact that I am still growing and learning as a writer. Anything which has the facility to move forward will likely not have the wherewithal to fizzle out any time soon.

So I will keep on writing. I will keep on submitting stories, pushing poetry and posting anything else I can conjure up if only to quiet the noise of worry that hides in the corners of my awareness.


Happy Ho Ho Holidays! 

Hello one and all! Wishing all of my blogosphere friends a wonderfully fantastical Christmas! I would really like to wow you today with some perfectly produced prose or valiant verse for this post, alas I’ve drank about a bottle and a half of red wine throughout the day so the words escape me. They flit haphazardly through my brain like rogue chickens on slaughter day…. apparently my inner farmer comes out when I drink as well. 

It’s been a wonderful day of lazing around, feast fixin’ and family togetherness! The best kind of Christmas celebration in my opinion. 

I hope you all had the same kind of perfect Christmas too! 

Nails on a chalkboard…that’s the mood this morning.

This morning I wake up and the worries of the world, no, the worries of my world stick to the front of my brain like a sloth to its tree…hmmm, that didn’t quite hit its mark did it? Like my daughter’s candy-glue fingers to the public bowl of toffee treats? Like my daughters candy-glue fingers to the whitened wall? Ah what about, like the tiny bit of tinfoil wrapping to the smarmy butter stick. Ugh, you know what, today is just not my day.

Anyways, the worries consume me. They eat up all of the joy and excitement I am supposed to have at this time of year. It is all of the normal things I worry about. Like business and money and how to possibly forge my way into the writing world when I have absolutely no qualifications to do such a preposterous thing. You know, the usual. It is not as though I am worrying about the extraterrestrial beings that are invading Earth or anything direr than that. I suspect my worries are quite similar (in a roundabout way) to those of anyone who woke up this morning with worries swimming through their brain’s wavelengths (perhaps a bit better?).

A deep sigh releases from my chest. My fingers keep pounding these keys looking for some kind of an answer. Some kind of release from the tightening sensation I’ve felt in my chest since opening my eyes this morning. They search for all of the things I want out of this life but seem to be finding impossible to gather up. The solution must be out there somewhere. In some deep recess of imagination or future thought or intention. It must be floating aimlessly; hoping and praying that sooner or later I will get my shit together just enough to reach out and grasp its concept. Put the pieces together and get the plan formulated to action. However right now, right here as I sit in this Christmas clad living room I cannot fathom even the smallest morsel of what this scheme could possibly be made up of.

At least the clinging anxieties of this morning have ebbed since placing my fingers to this keyboard. They will likely emerge again when I am driving or playing a game of Monopoly with the kids or shovelling snow from the driveway while cursing under my breath about all of the god damned fucking snow, but I suppose that is for later torment.

Maybe the trick of it is to find that release and work it regularly. Write out the worries. Sing out the stress. Draw out the disturbance. Everyone has something and the beautiful part of this strategy is while we are releasing these ill at ease feelings we are practising our craft, perfecting our craft. Carrying us closer to the endgame. Bringing us to where we want to be.

Read to me, you.

I wonder. I wonder, if you and I were to read the exact same line of poetry would we see the same thing? On the surface, yes. A linear stroke of verse written to satisfy collective logic. A sentence.

But deeper down, where irrational thoughts rest like tadpoles in a still pond  I suppose it is most likely that the words are made up of biospheres. They are unlike each other at all. They have different meanings, different shapes that take base from one brain to another.

The significance of one sentence, loose and languid may fall upon my subconscious like raindrops popping on cement. While sticking sternly, unrelentingly to the wall of yours for later use. For later amplification.

Ideas will worry away in some inside tunnel, diverse and hot, forever wandering if not quelled with common sense. They wrap themselves around the way we walk as we mull them over in our thoughts on the bus, at the party, in the supermarket checkout line.

One line of poetry can make a difference. It will change me internally. Capture a small part of my existence never to be returned. While these words breeze by your eyes like the white feathers of a dandelion on the air once they are touched to a child’s lips.

I have come to realize that it is the words who decide. They choose their captors; sinking their sights into unsuspecting souls who are merely looking for a quick read, some rouge knowledge, a bit of word to tide them over until their next fix.

One piece of small familiarity is all it takes. An acquaintance of time or space or person or feeling or language, and the sentence has taken you as its own.

This is why reading is such a miraculous thing.

Ideas transferred from one paper, one screen, one diner napkin old and coffee stained to the mind’s eye of the reader. Instantaneous, infectious. Soapsuds bursting under a running faucet, ideas pop and float into the atmosphere slightly changing the way we forever imagine life to be.

For me at least.

How about you?


Working The Words Out

I am unqualified this morning. Blank and impotent. Usually the glow of this monitor helps me rummage up something, anything, before my time has waned. All it takes is one word. Or maybe several words joined together; mismatched and messy like the Velcro straps of a child’s shoe. Like the shoe, it allows me to get to the place I long to be. An idea will bloom into a great bulbous sphere of anticipation. The sphere screams out, pleading to be popped, insistent on spreading words and thoughts and ideas and presence to all who might look its way. These words long to leak outwards into a weary world. Into a vibrant world. Into a world that has not yet read these precise words in this precise way. Perhaps this morning, as snow filters downwards from a boundless black sky, my thoughts are too trivial, too reedy for something of that splendour. I glance towards the bottom left corner of this luminous screen and see that somehow, beyond all blight, my quota has been filled. The words are out of me. I’ve managed to pull them off my tongue in tiny bits and pieces in hopes that some word-famished fool will come to devour the tastes I leave in my wake. And I am satisfied. At least for now.

Short Poems because words are rad

Eyes part,

Tiny slits through weary lids.

Memory floods recollection

Collections of images, words, hopes, dreams

Forged to the surface

Whitewashing, rapid

Rising upwards-faster until everything has drowned.








A finger twitches to life

The day’s list hangs theatrically

Upon imaginary hooks in the brain

Reminders of life and promise

And hope for the future.

Tokens on giving thanks

To daily duties.








The feeling does not wash over her

So much as rise to the surface.

It is slow, sticky.

Painfully meticulous in its quest

To be made known.

Honey falling from a bottle

It will soon make contact.








Disaster is a curious word

Pain transferred to one place for another

A caustic arctic upon

Once lovely landscapes.

Cries of sorrow carried loud and long

On the languid backs

Of words to come.









Resiliency drives the human race forwards

It’s the only thing.

Optimism in the face of adversity.

Purpose pushing limits.

To stand up, speak out,  spring back

To life. To hope. To moving. To being.

To free fall into the unknown is an exquisite thing.




A notebook by the bed would be nice

Lindsay is lying in bed thinking about topics to write about. She really really, truly, really wants her blog to be hip and pop and fresh but sometimes she feels her writing is missing some vital element of…She can’t quite put her finger on it, perhaps, pizazz.

So most nights, this night included, she rests in bed for a few minutes thinking over new and interesting things to write about.

The snow outside is drifting downwards in tiny specs, Lindsay does not let this fool her though, if this keeps up by morning the city will be nearly snowed in. Hmmm that won’t be good for business, Lindsay worries, but she pushes that thought from her mind. Stressing too much about work and snow and money and having to drive on treacherous roads puts a bit of a damper on the creative process. So she shoves the idea to a corner of her brain where she can rummage it up flap it out for later use.

But what to write about? What to pizazz them with? What words to use to wrap ideas around her readers brains? What subjects to sprinkle out upon conversation’s floor? What stories to tell?

That’s it! She’s got it! By golly gosh she’s gone dog gone and done it!

What a fine-looking first sentence, she thinks, as the words skip over her thought process like pebbles across a glass lake. Oh yes, this is good. So good! Lindsay is reveling in the pure pleasure of having thought of such mastery of her craft. Oh how glorious it feels to have done something well.

And with that thought sleep swims up from the place she keeps it in while the daylight hours shine and slowly pulls her down into the depths sleepy-time dreams.

The alarm clock rings at 4am sharp. Generally Lindsay wakes up a few minutes before the melodramatic droning of the alarm begins but not this morning. This morning she is dreaming about being locked in a reality TV show where she must sing Christmas carols in outlandish fashion to gather points in which she must horde in order to buy her way out of the house to freedom. If she does not get enough points by allotted time provided she will be promptly consumed  by Ed Sheeran. So needless to say, Lindsay has got to lay off the hot chocolate before bed time.

In any case she is excited to wake up because there lingering in her memory is the fact that last night she had rummaged up the greatest blog topic of the century and this morning she is going to bring it to fruition. It’s going to be awesome man.

She lays stock still. She is quite sure if she refrains from making any sudden movements it will come to her. The idea was huge. Colossal. There is no way it won’t come to her. Right? Any time now it will surface. First, nothing but the tiniest tip will show itself over the immense surface of the oceans which lives in Lindsay’s imagination. After she has deftly hooked the beast she will begin reeling it towards her, every inch closer it comes the more detail of the thing will be made clear. Eventually her fully shaped, fully beatified idea will be waiting in front of her, waiting to be written out for the peoples reading enjoyment.

She waits.

She waits some more.

Come on. Lindsay says in an anticipatory tone. Much like the tone one uses when waiting for the john on a morning following chili cheese dog dinner night.

Nothing. A stagnant tundra of nothingness is all that fills Lindsay’s brain this cold and dreary morning. She pulls herself out of bed and towards the coffee pot. She begins to brainstorm. Back to the drawing board. Square one.

She manages to piece together some convoluted piece of weirdness about writing and planning and forgetfulness but it just isn’t what she had hoped for. She wanted pizazz, she wanted grandeur. She wanted that damn idea she had come up with last night. She will have to keep a notebook by her bed from now on she thinks. It is the only way.

Lindsay’s only consolation on this morning of non creative accomplishment is the knowing that tomorrow is another day. Another blank space to fill. Another post to write. Or, more accurately—because Lindsay learns her lessons when need be—another post to copy down from her notebook from the night before.

The nothing things are really something wouldn’t you say?

The nothing things are quite possibly
My favorite things to write about.
The little things
So difficult to describe
I must still time for a while.
Allow the words
To wrap around my tongue a bit.

The smile on a child’s face. No,
Not the smile, the transformation of happiness.
The split second
When the eyes brighten and enchantingly
Turn luminiferous. The utter bliss
Is wordsmith fodder.
An odd encounter.
A second thought.
The nothing things are the lovely things.
They give me hope
For later days. Softly stroking

My ancient wrinkled ways.
For to take the time
The precious stints of minutes passed
To appreciate the nothing things
The little things
The infinitesimal things
The lazy things
The daily things
The things that are the normal things
The nothing things, which no one sings
Leads me, 

Chaperones me on wings of dogged words
To perceive the more important things.
The heavy things, the gleefully retched things
The boisterous infectious things,
That rings around abnormal things.
The nothing things are commonplace  
Perhaps common to a fault.
Yet every single nothing thing
That lives in nothing space
Has an unseen something thing
A story, to
Be told.




Sticks to the roof of my mouth

Like toffee on teeth.

Or maybe it is more like

Tar to feather – Impossible to remove

And resulting in total annihilation if attempted.

One who exhibits bravado, heroism, flamboyance

A swashbuckler.

I awoke with this word,

These 12 seemingly simple letters,

Bathing upon the outer layers

Of my brain.

It may have been the word

Which woke me up in fact.

Startled me out of submission by

Tiptoeing up the steps of subconscious

Then cannon-balling directly into the heart of my cognisance.

Making coffee, walking the dog,

Scrolling over social media mayhem


Does not ebb from my mind’s eye.

It aches to be written over and over again.

Or perhaps only once.

A word like that merely needs one moment,

One cameo doled out accordingly

To steal the show.

Words like swashbuckler were made for writers,

Who else would appreciate their sumptuousness so?