If you were… #children #fiction

If you were a butterfly would you be friends with a lion???

I didn’t think so.

Personally,I wouldn’t either.  We know a lion who saved a butterfly while she was still in her chrysalis and she saw something about him that others didn’t.

Now this butterfly and (domesticated) lion go about the villages of Uganda teaching children.

If you listen closely, you might hear Judah roar. Don’t be afraid it is the only way a lion knows how to laugh.

Join us (Sean and Leslie) in 2019 as we write the story of the world where giraffes and orabi graze and children dance and sing in the village schools of Uganda.

 

Stepping Stones #poetry #photography #writing

 

 

 

 

Valley water in a good year

 

rough current o’er my path

couldn’t pick a way

no choice but sink or swim

life pulled me down

boulders blocked my life

throw them at the sun

sharp like a knife

writing scribbled frowns

not really smooth

a way in front I see

what lies behind

rushes to the sea

walk in a village

water flowing free

writing with a goal

children read & dream

 

I know poetry is symbolic and cryptic and so many unexplainables. Poetry has been a way for me to move forward (and write) when my path seemed fouled. Use your words no matter how few to set your mind at ease. There is a waterfall of sentences just up ahead.

A Dark Night #noir #poetry #EdgarAllenPoe

Edgars desk

Gather my last notes

sleep never so desired

always more elusive

more muddied in the mire

against eyelash moth fluttered

taunting at my face

stopping for full moments

slumber could not erase

those errant memories

pass me, you and I

never have I slept

since the day you died

 fingers momentary

clasp about my throat

end this misery

 “goodbye” all you wrote

 my end you had predicted

 tables then were turned

shot in desperate dark

the killer in hell will burn

fresh white like a lily

purest scent I’d known

now a dusty red

stained the step toward home

your whisper doth entice

it draws me near the fire

wings might easily ignite

lay next to you my desire

work must yet be done

before I lay my head

I gather darkest dream

you villains breathe in dread

We celebrate your gift of using the pen to write Noir. Thank you Edgar for your inspiration to many writers

Happy Birthday

“T” Tastes Like Chicken by Newt Livesay #atozchallenge

we ran out of body bags…

 

I am winding up the A to Z month with some handy tips for writers. My very good friend Newt Livesay is deliberate in his research and since crime is his genre he has to figure out a way for his “bad guys” get rid of bodies. Newt did a blog called the body disposal group where these different “pieces” are taken from.

Newt is finalizing a novel set in New Orleans titled: “The Man that Tattooed Women.” This novel  is one part serial killer one part raging hurricane which sums up to a thrilling ride. If you like a book that you can’t put down and you find yourself screaming”RUN”  at the characters, then you will like this story. The novel should be in e-book form by this summer.

You can find Newt at Facebook  onTwitter he is @newtlivesay. If you or anyone you know has served in the military, it is quiet likely that they used a Livesay knife to stay alive. Newt is an excellent writer and a dear friend and I am grateful for the tips he is sharing for the letters T-W!!!

***

tastes like chicken

Eating one’s victims is a simple and effective means of disposing of that pesky body. A great book on this subject was written by the late Peter Hathaway Capstick, entitled “MANEATERS.” Everything I have read about human flesh is that it is: ‘sweet, almost the texture or consistency of pork’. Most cultures that at one time condoned (or still do) the eating of human flesh do so with a certain reverence. Just as animals eat vital organs first for  nourishment, cannibals have certain rites or protocols they follow. Hearts, livers, and brains are reserved for the more important members of the conclave with brains being the most prized. During WWII in the Pacific, some members of the Japanese military practiced a code of Bushido where they ate unlucky allied prisoners. Read the true accounts of this practice in James Bradley’s “Fly Boys” ( movie of the same name); it is very revealing.

Jeffrey Lionel Dahmer (May 21, 1960 – November 28, 1994) was a serial killer and sex offender. Dahmer murdered 17 men and boys and seemed to have an appetite for Africans and AsiansDahmer enjoyed both a lifestyle of necrophilia and cannibalism between 1978 and 1991. The majority of his murders occurred between 1987 and 1991 and his murders were particularly gruesome involving rape, torture and dismemberment. On November 28, 1994, he was beaten to death by an inmate at the Columbia Correctional Institution where he had been incarcerated.

Now for the Disclaimer – This blog does not suggest that anyone should do anything that would be considered illegal. This is a blog for writers to use for research, and as comical relief of a very serious problem. If you do not understand this fully, or you think this give you the rights to commit an illegal act, you’re one sick bastard, and you should seek competent mental counseling immediately.
 All rights reserved  (c) 2015 by Newt Livesay

Enjoy Some A to Z bloggers:

959.

“G” Gluttony by Matt Harrill

Today we continue with our body bag count. Not sure what our numbers are- Steve Slack racked them up quickly. Today we are switching authors and will enjoy Matt Harrill’s slealthy, predator as he circles…front-cover-229x348 hellbounce

“EVA!” Brian yelled from behind her.

She stopped and turned. He was perhaps a hundred yards or so back; the crowd had bunched around him.

“If thou hast done foolishly in lifting up thyself, or if thou hast thought evil, lay thine hand upon thy mouth. What benefit did you reap at that time from the things you are now ashamed of? Those things result in death!”

Brian was quoting the Bible? Before Eva could respond, the smiling woman lifted the girl into the air, and passed her to him. The feeling of hunger magnified a hundredfold, and the crowd began to growl, unutterable sounds that could not be recognised as human. There was an eager anticipation in the air, as if an abomination was about to be unfettered.

As one, the mob surged at Brian, and both he and the girl disappeared from view. Eva couldn’t see what was going on, but the mob piled into the space where Brian had stood, baying and scrapping.

Eva felt compelled to join them, but something inside her fought the feeling, preventing her from moving. She stood, immobile, as others ran past her to dive in.

Above it all, there was a piercing wail, tortured and desperate, extinguished almost as soon as it began. It wasn’t Brian they were after. He wasn’t protecting the child. He was slaughtering her! Then a flash of red sprayed up from the seething mass, and Eva began to scream.

*** I will be giving at least one of Matt’s books away. So each comment ( for Matt’s G- L) counts toward winning!***

Matt Harrill is the author of the trilogy The Arc Chronicles.

Matthew W Harrill lives in the idyllic South-West of England, nestled snugly in a village in the foothills of the Cotswolds. Born in 1976, he attended school in Bristol and received a degree in Geology from Southampton University. By day he plies his trade implementing shareplans for Xerox. By night he spends his time with his wife and four children. (and he writes sci-fi horror).

I have a delightful interview of Matt as well. He really is an interesting chap and his writing is to die for…

Chat with him on twitter @matt_harrill

You can find Matt on Amazon and will be glad that you did!!!

I will also add a quick plug for “Song for Liberia” a project that will benefit orphans of Ebola. More about that project here.

Bloggers who are enjoying the A to Z Challenge:

291.
294.
299.

 

“F” Un- Faithful by Steve Slack

corn cockle

Dolores Gillpin was married for 10 years. Dolores rarely got angry, but when she did, her rage could be described as the resurrected fury of a Scottish ghost. Her betrothed, William, was a reserved man. Even in the early years of their marriage, he would rarely display bouts of passion. She found this lack of physical love annoying, but she put up with it.

Dolores, out of boredom and wanting of child, would take long walks in the countryside. One bright sunny day she saw William picking a bouquet of wildflowers. Blushing and touched by the gesture, she hoped it might lead to an afternoon of lovemaking. When she arrived back at the cottage, she prepared for the anticipated romp. William returned to the cabin, several hours later, exhausted and sauntered off to bed.

Two weeks later, Dolores watched William picking another bouquet, she noticed he was cheery disposition and spring in his step. Staying concealed in the hedges, she followed him two kilometers away to a widow’s cottage.

Margaret answered the door, accepted the flowers, and passionately wrapped her arms around his neck and kissing him.

Dolores was shattered. Sitting on a rock, as her heart broke, she tried to think what she was going to do. The more she thought the angrier she became.

Returning from the Glenn, Dolores called her childhood friend Molly Giggins, who still lived in Scotland.

“Hello” a mild high-pitched voice came over the receiver.

“Molly this is Dolores in America.”

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

“I needed to hear the sound of a friend’s voice.”

“Is William well?”

“Indeed, he and his mistress are just fine.”

“A scoundrel!”

“Aye, I caught him today.”

“How can I help?”

“Remember when we were young girls and we used to read the poetry of David Mallet.”

“Yes, I do. I remember you were always fond of ‘William and Margaret.’”

“Aye,   I must admit missing Corncokle the most.”

“Do you have a garden?”

“Aye, I do.”

“Right now nothing will set you straight faster than a reminder of your home. I’ll pop a package in the mail; it should be their within a week.”

“Your friendship is appreciated.”

“It’s the least I can do for my sister.”

 

A week later a small parcel was delivered to her door. She opened it and found a bag of dark seeds and a pair of rubber gloves. She mixed the seeds with a large bag of bird seed and poured them in the bird feeder. Within a month, springtime had arrived. A new flower that no one had ever seen began to bloom in the grassy fields around the house. A glorious, pink flower sprang from the plant.

It wasn’t long before William noticed the beautiful blossoms growing along the path to his mistress’s door. William plucked a large bouquet and presented them to his love. That night, William did not return home. On the second day missing, she reported his absence to the Sherriff.  Four days later, the postman reported a foul smell coming from Margret’s cottage. The Sherriff found the two of them laying in each other’s arms. They believed that it was a suicide pact between two lovers. No one noticed the bouquet of Corncockle in a vase next to the bed. As sure as the grimly ghost came from the east of Scotland, the birds ate the birdseed, and deposited them in the fields to bloom in spring.

Dolores smiled. Agrostemma Githago was the most poisonous wildflower in Scotland. Contact with the stems, leaves or flowers would lead to emminent death.

Thanks to Emorsgate Seeds for the picture of the Corncockle.

Great blogs to enjoy today!

262.

Wolf / Human? You choose… #humor #poetry #dpchallenge

fuseli_nightmare

It was a cold and frothy night

blood dripped from my fangs

I shivered at the thought

I looked at myself in the reflection

“I’m a wolf why am I shivering?”

the inner me spoke

“you are human only when it suits me

and wolf when you are a beast”

I was reminded that as a human I’m vegan

I really can’t stand the sight of blood

and yet it tasted so good on my lips

“aack” I woke up with the dawn

“I hate those kind of dreams”

I thought as I padded to the sink

washing the stench of wolf from my nostrils

I failed to see the woman draped over my white sheets

*****

WordPress has a delightful prompt for today at Daily Post – Howl at the Moon

“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.” — Allen Ginsberg

Et Tu? Do you follow Ginsberg’s advice — in your writing and/or in your everyday life?

Thanks to Fuseli for inspiring so many with his painting The Nightmare which I believe is in the collection at the Tate.