Saturday, July 20, 2019

Young Jody Alpha 12-16-1990

Young Jody Alpha 12-16-1990 (working tittle)

Young Jody Alpha with her hair of shimmering sunlight, peered through the chewed and rotten railings of the auction yard. Her huge blue eyes leaked salty tears not only from the stench of excrement covered animals, but from the tortured silent cries of dignity dying.

Her father placed a hand upon her shoulder and knelt next to her. “An awful shame these beasts  half to go through this.”

“Oh Pappa, lets buy them all and set them free.” She said without taking her eyes from the animals.

Casting a glance at the butchers and kill buyers he replied. “In a way Jody someone will.”

A towering white ghost of a horse walked unevenly through the knee deep mire and awkwardly thrust his ancient muzzle through the gap in the fence and smelled Jody and then drew it back in and began to chew on the rail in one last attempt to regain freedom.

“why does he limp so Pappa?” ask Jody reaching out a hand to stroke his stubbly one white nose.

He caught  her hand and returned it to her side. “He’s a pacer that is his natural gate….why I bet this old man was quite a racer in his day.”

Again she reached up a hand to touch the haunting apparition of a once great horse. Again her father caught her chubby hand and held it tight.

The sunken horse drew up his head and peered down at the child with one of his smoky blue eyes. For a few seconds, or an eternity, no one knows which, Jody’s heart beat in the primordial rhythm of racing hooves. Swept through a crack in time to join as one with this phantom pacer. Her hand rebelled against her father’s restraining grasp.

“Jody.” Her father said sternly, with his one word saying a speech.

“It’s okay Pappa!” she excitedly exclaimed “He’s come for me!”

…and  her eyes burned as the radiation blasted across the land. She blinked frantically to clear the gritty dust from her eyes only to drowned by the sickly sweet warm air…

There was seven of them, always seven, a number preordained  by voices long since hushed. Five of them perched on the edge of adulthood yet still tangled among the threads of childhood. And two of them immersed in the multi-hued world of childish wonder. None of them numbered past one decade and six years of age.

A group of highly skilled horsemen living in a time of half a reality half a fantasy. Time split in two different dimensions by the force of the modern civilized man…a nuclear reaction going supernova.  Causing earth ways to overlap and beings from one existence to spill over into a newly formed land of strangeness. It was as if the shadows had changed places with the sunlight.

They would call this new land Treekinin and within this world is where I dwell forever and ever always out of sync. My name has long since ceased to mean anything. They call me Jilinchi and I am the keeper of the dead. My form I’m free to change, yet I mostly stay within the form of a horse. A pure white mare with black Chackta burns around my eyes the radiation. The humans say my Chackta marks resemble the makeup of the ancient Egyptians. I laugh causing my Chackta marks to curl. I know not of what they speak, yet they know nothing of belly bands and Chando staffs. We have a lot to teach each other. Perhaps we’ll find we are the same.

There was seven of them, always seven. The eldest was Richards’s daughter, her name is Jacy. This child-woman was persistently followed by a brown pony tail bobbing in her wake. She was strong yet gentle and had a compelling aura about her. She is teetering on the edge of knowing and understanding….a place where many has fallen. She is the daughter of the impish MaryQueen, an alabaster beauty with raven black hair. Many a man has drowned in MQ’s beauty.

They tell me of my journey to become the keeper of the dead. The guardians of Always have spoken of a child called Jody who was summons by the phantom pacer with smoke-blue eyes. The pacer pulled me in through a leak in time and kept me from perishing in the searing heat of the blast, but in doing so my human body, unable to make the journey, was destroyed .  I was given the echo of the pacers form to dwell in forever more. I can transform myself to any creatures echo, even those that only exist in the minds of mad men.

There was seven, always seven. Then there was Jennifer. Small yet strong. Strawberry blond hair capped this tomboyish lass with violet eyes. In her nine years of living amongst us in this world she’d acquired the knowledge that all men dream about, yet dare not seek. Her mother a mortal mettling among the spirits has gifted her with the sense of Gumwallyea-dew, this is nothing for a child to possess.

We live in the land called Treekinin, who’s name nothing to those who will not listen. Surrounded and encased in a gelatinous dome made of sunlight and air and dust fused by the blast.

End here unfinished. Dayammmmm, looks like I am a serial leave-um-hangin' writer.
This is actually an attempt to re-frame/rewrite my Novel The Children of Starr. It had morphed into a bloated beast that needed culling/pruning/amputating. I picked the angle of setting it all through the eyes of Jody/Jilinchi.

Friday, July 19, 2019

Opal upon black

(Circa the late 80’s/early 90’s.  it’s a master piece of long superfluous run on sentences LOL I’ve changed it from its original format for your ease in reading…as it was  all one giant block of text!  It’s an early attempt at nailing down the singsong rhythm I write too. I will someday come across a dated copy of it and fill in the right date. )

Opal upon black

I swam toward the surface of my silvery dream sleep, only to break the surface and have to claw my way through the covers. To find myself in bed was distressing. I longed to return to the cyanotic blue hues of my sleep. I sat to ponder a moment while wearing the moons glow upon my face like beauty cream…perhaps someday he would learn to come into my world just as I had learned to go to his.

I reclined my head upon my pillow and vanished into the abyss of dreams. He materialized from the tranquil darkness and called out to me in an unspoken voice hushed from centuries of whispering. He had given me a name  not made up of letters but colors. In the weightless world of quicksilver and blue I glided toward him.

His body engulfed mine…the sensation of his touch was like free falling naked through a billowy white cloud. I adoringly drank in the light that shone from his eyes of emerald which ring around a halo of opal upon black. I intertwine his twilight colored hair around my fingers and gently tugged, trying to persuade him closer…deeper.

Our bodies join as one as we drifted beyond the reaches of reality. One being…one breath…yet I still wished to soak him into my skin and possess him body and soul. Again I gaze into his kaleidoscope eyes and implore him to span the stretch of midnight and join me in the mortal world.

He spoke in his unspoken language, his breath was heavy and warm, smelling of sweet fantasies. I understood it not but I heard what he implied; although I could come unchanged into his world, which is carefully cradled in a place where darkness and light are one, he couldn’t journey from the enchanted half way world without changing.

So let me stay here with you! My body cried, it’s voice echoing like an eerie whales cry, it seemed to hang like crystals on the hypnotic blue waves.

In my mind I heard a noise, it seeked to jar me loose from my lovers embrace and return me to my world. I resisted and melted into his strong grasp. The noise that violated this tranquil eden of my mind persisted.

Like a bubble we rose to the surface. A mixture of violet and blue hues trailed behind us marking our path. With my fingers still tightly woven in his mystic grey hair, we break the surface. I heard him cry out as he took his first breath of air…

I fell forever…and then landed spread eagle upon my bed. The alarm clock was screaming in my ears.

There was a terrible aching in my arms as I rolled over and sat up. I held myself, trying to remember the feel of his touch, the aroma of his essence and the taste of his skin… I quivered as my own hair brushed across my back.

From his spot on the end of my marshmallow comforter, my steel grey tom cat slowly turned his head towards me. He eyes were closed as he resisted awakening. So contented he looked with a gentle smile on his face.

Leaning forward I caressed his head. “What secrets do you know?” I whispered tickling his chin.

He opened his eyes…and they met mine, bright shiny emerald which ringed around a halo of opal upon black.

Thursday, July 18, 2019

my muse...ech, just jumbled thoughts off the tracks

[This was originally written in the fall of 2017. I miss placed my note and I just found it to type in. Seems like a life time ago. I was still new to the polymyositis diagnosis.  ]

I just finished a two week vacation where I had intended to finish "Skinned" and assemble a collection of my writings into a book.

But I found my self unable to write. Just nothing in the well to pull up and hammer into type. The most I wrote was a very forced sentence. A run on sentence at that.

But yesterday as I sat in the doctors office I was able to jot down some words that flowed in sync with the music I write internally too...and I realized that pain is my muse.

It has to be a certain level of pain. Too much and my writing is terribly dark. Too little and my words are too light too fluffy to sink down and touch my readers.

This summer, after the pain reached the point of 10/10 on a daily basis I requested 2 weeks off in November. Not to take a break, no, for more darker reasons. Because uncontrolled chronic pain smothered with a thick layer of depression and shit flavored frosting is a awful thing to have to eat each day.

Hope came from new dishes and a referral to a rheumatologist. Dishes that gave me a daily reminder, that life goes on. A very tangible colorful reminder that life is what we choose to make it. My sister's decision to open her life and cupboards to let in a rainbow, spilled over into my life and quite literally altered my path into a healthy coping mechanism that helped me as the doctor worked on getting me diagnosed.

Chasing down what is wrong with me is a complicated dance with symptoms, labs and tests. A loop.

This is what my soul barfed up yesterday. I can hear the writer in me struggling to resurface through the medication.  But I wonder if the lack of creativity and ability to write of late is a direct result of the medication. The prednisone has been mostly effective in blocking the pain. And since pain is my muse I am left my writing at the end of its time? Gawd I hope not. that would not be nice to leave everyone hanging with my last piece unfinished.

anyway, here is what I wrote yesterday:

Pain loop


Places we return to in life.

Like puddles with the same reflection.

Time and  space arches and I am once again deposited on Dr. Grants door step.

With my pain there is one consistent. Him.

He was there when the OJI started me on a different chronic pain journey. He links me to the past as he joins my life again. A quiet visitor who's familiar hands I have been in before. What clues does he hold? What keys does he have that will release me from his anchor?

Destany splits and archs brightly as I again lay on his table and let him poke and prod my nerves with if he is some alien, who has again journeyed to this planet to experiment on me.

Time and disease slowing my muscles are less willing to jump under his command this time.

Shapeshifter (1993)


you pour from my hands
sculpted on my window ledge
warm on my stomach
your anger claws my skin
your internal roar soothing to my ears
tickling me with your antics
obsidian slivers dilating on emerald green
forever on the move


I can't write today
my mind a tumbler filled with
snatches of nothing
empty promises
like dryer lint
collecting together
to form
some strange fabric


Slam dunking

Car door slams, I'm late for work.
Wrestle with the gate chain,
step back...
white shoes muddy the still water
bleached socks suck up murky hues...
"Stay out of the puddles" Mama's voice carries.
I hopscotch through a dozen more
laughing at the girl in the puddles
who bobs and ripples away
I catch her and stomp her with my new white shoes
wrestling with my book bag
wet tennies slam the pavement
I'm late for school.

(c) 1993 Prussell

11-3-1999 untitled poem

     words like rhythmic rain
              wash into the abyss amplifying the pain
                                                    jump past the blood stain
                                                                       is this life all in vain?

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Going old school

Since my menopausal brain is too aged to write anymore, gunna cheese you with some old stuff.

(c) 1993

Hello Madness,

       Your finger prints are on the steering wheel of the car that drove me insane. You threw the rocks into my serene mental pond and caused the endless ripples. It's your knife that cut my safety rope sending me plunging into the abyss.

       It will be my bloody finger prints they discover around your neck. It will be my scarred arms that swing the crow bar that opens your skull. It will be my laughter that you hear as I cut into your body as you did mine.

Goodbye, Sanity.

Thursday, July 11, 2019

No internet.

When ever my kids marvel at some obscure skill I shuffling cards, making extremely tall card houses, tying shoes, magic tricks etc.. they always ask, "how did you learn that?"

My answer is always..."No internet."

I'm so old I grew up before the internet. Which left me with oodles of oodles of time and space and absolutely nothing else to do.

My sibling and I were quite adept at finding nonsensical things to do. They usually involved a competition  of some sort cause, what's the point of playing if you can't gloat over your siblings that you are the winner.

One such competition  was getting home from the places we drove to faster then everyone else.  Notably the rollerdrome was a great place to race back from.

It was me and my older sister in her car, we had pulled off out skates and bolted from the rollerdrome seconds before closing, and were a good mile from it when we got caught at a red light.

Laughing like hyena's we both were looking over our right shoulders to see if we could see our brother in his yellow car. Nothing.

Easy victory!

'honk honk"


Our heads swivel left. There is our brother on the freakin sidewalk beside us, inching his car between the mailbox and a power pole. He waves with a shit eating grin and drives off the curb, through the cross traffic and off on to a side road and disappears.

We laugh all the way home and we prepare to be put in out place with his smug, Me? Oh, I've been home for hours!, what took you two so long look.

He didn't disappoint.

Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Spellign errors

Been doing only shorts on the blog cause I'm having issues with typing.

 THe numbness sin my hanvds mal= tying an disuse. Misseled strokes , strange combos ans I try to typw ith numb hands. Its looks a lotke this. I spend a lotr longwr editing and cotrectign my words them normal.

It feesl like I;'ve had a stroke when I typr.  Its bothersome to try to get into the flow aof a story and get lost int eh mental rhytem I type too to look up na dfind the page RED with sqiggles.

I've nassically los tteh use of my little and ring fingers, they are numba dn hard to get to cooperate for long typing  sessions.

so I guess there goes my fantasy of making an living as a writer? LOL

This si an unedited version so you can see what is going on.

Its bprobally a good thing menopause has stilled my sriters breain. M ahnds can no longer keep up with it.

the truth

Little child

the truth is the puddle you stand in...will never drown you.

pockets of time will open up in your life,


the chaos will still , and the truth will be there,

shining like a star.

We are all lost.

we invented time

and this order...we call life.

It's a path that we were herded down like sheep

sold on a lie

placed in pens called houses.

our young plucked from the outside

and placed on desks that open and feed them knowledge from paper.

We were meant to feed our young by our voices,

only the verbal tales that survived passed down are what they need to know.

We cram needless history into their minds,

...carry this...its not yours, but you must carry it...

Each life is one to be lived anew

what you do with it is yours.

we have been separated from the truth.

its forgotten now,

repetition and fear of the elders who obeyed their elders

who obeyed back to the beginning where the masters queued mankind into to the gates to the slaughter house

you will glimpse the truth

in dreams that fade as you open your eyes.

when you can stand in the rain

and your realize if you ignore the drops you can feel the pattern of the space around them

and you too will be unable to

put the truth to words.

Sunday, June 16, 2019

Wind child

July 2018 I wrote this story. The idea swept over me and I furiously typed it out. Paused to breath and it was gone. I've come back numerous times and can't find the words (rhythm?) Perimenopause, took me to a headspace where writing was difficult. Now 6 months post menopause, it's like the fertile soil in my brain has soured. No crops crow here. I can see the end, I just can't close it. Posting what I got for you. Warning: unfinished story, I may never be able to finish.


Little child opened the screen door and saw Grandmother on the porch sitting in her rocker, smiling as the wind rocked the old chair.

"Grandmother where did the wind come from?"

Grandmother shifted her weight and made room on her rocking chair. "come sit with me and I will tell you."

Little child climbed up and snuggled up.

"The wind didn't always blow. She once walked the earth."

"Walked?" asked Little child.

"Yes, walked. The wind once had legs."

Grandmother, pulled her closer and set the rocker in motion. They rocked in silence for a moment.

With tears in her eyes Little child looked up. "W-what happ-ened to her legs?"

"Long ago, when the wind was young, she was a beautiful girl. She was wild and free and....oh so full of life. Everyone back then, when the world was young, moved at a slow pace. But not the wind, she ran everywhere.

She was different. So different, she was seen as an outsider. She had friends, no one could keep up with her. They would happily smile and high five her as she ran by.  She stood out, there was no one like her.

No one tried to keep up with her. They couldn't. She was a thing of beauty, with her long hair sweeping around her.

Her mother called her one day.

"Wind child! come inside!"

She obeyed and came inside the dwelling. But she felt suffocated and trapped. As soon as someone opened the door, she was gone in a swirl of dust. Her feet flew fast down the path and over the stone wall.

Her mother called after her. "One day child you will learn to be still!"

"I will not!" she laughed as she disappeared into the forest.

One day they awoke to find strangers in the village.

These stranger's wanted to be guided to the great waters.  "We are travelers, trying to find our way back to the water so we can sail home." they said "Can someone show us the way?"

Elder-man stepped up and agreed to guide them.

And they left.

But the earth was young and moved at a slower pace. Elder-man pace was too slow for the strangers.

"We must hurry, the season will change and we will not be able to sail home to our families."

Elder-man sent a message back to the village.

send wind child

it said.

She needed no stick to her flank to get her running. Easily and swiftly she darted through the long grass and before long blew into the group of travelers.

"This way!" she smiled and took flight.

Elder-man tried to keep up with the group, but he could not. He was too rooted to move that fast. The last he saw of her was the dirty soles of feet flashing as she disappeared in the distance.

The strangers couldn't even keep up with her. Many times she had to double back and push there backs to hurry them along.

When the dark ground gave way to light sand she finally halted.  She knew the way to the big waters but she had never traveled there.

The endless green water. The empty blue sky.

a large brown boat.

"Come aboard, and eat before you make the return trip." they said.

She followed them inside.

on her plate they set food, and as she took a bite, they shut the door.

She looked up alarmed, and rose to her feet.

"You will come with us." they said.

"I will not!" she said fiercely. Her face growing dark with swirling shadows.

"We will keep you. Your much too fast for those slow pokes in the village."

She began to run and run around the room knocking over everything as her rage grew into a violent storm.

They grabbed her and chained her.

She kicked them.

"OBEY!!" they commanded.

"I will not!" she grumbled and curled up in a ball.

Ships had to be rowed in those days before there was wind. The journey was slow, so slow. Like life and the people back at the village.

Wind child used every chance she got to escape and squeeze through the cracks and stand on the deck. Where she would stare longingly as the fading shore. Until one trip to the deck she found only endless water around her.

"Crazy legs, you can't escape now." laughed the crew.

"I will." she murmured.

They chained her again and again.

Until one day they lost patience and they took her legs from her.

"There! now you will stay put!" they shouted as they threw her legs over board.

"I will not!" she said and drew in a deep breath and as she exhaled slipped from her body and took flight.

Around and around the boat she flew.  "Be gone " she said to the sailors and pushed the boat away.

She glided quietly across the big water.  She grew tired and needed to rest. Where do you rest when you are just a gust of wind? Where do you go if you are not moving? Do you cease to exist?

Frightened she called out. "Big water, I need a place to rest my head."

The ocean stirred and tossed up waves full of sea foam into the air.

She gathered them into a pillow and rested her head on them, "I will call these clouds." She rested her head on them.

Even then she could not be still. She pushed the white fluffy clouds in the direction of the land.