Lex Chase's Blog, page 2

I Am Not Ashamed

Hello, Internet! I’m Lex Chase! I always start my blog posts like that, don’t I? Perky. Happy. Usually do a… Read more I Am Not Ashamed

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year! Welcome to 2018, or as we call it: Please don’t let this year suck as bad as 2017 did.

Chuck Wendig’s brilliant New Year’s post was titled “2017: The Year That Lasted Ten Years,” and I recommend you give it a read. I found myself nodding along.

2017 moved fast, it also trudged along so slowly that I wanted to put it out of it’s misery. Every day there was a new incident, something new to worry about, a new crisis, a new movement, another day of this thing being important, and this other thing being problematic. It was like that dog sitting in a burning building with a blithe smile saying, “This is fine.”

Everything is not fine. Everything won’t be fine for a while. But we can’t let it consume us. I actively stopped watching the news and reading the trending stories on Facebook. I glance at it just enough to be informed, and look away when I feel my anxiety building.

Meanwhile, in the creative world…

2017 was the year I didn’t have a single new release, and I had to come to terms with a lot of it. I had won Rainbow Awards in December of 2016 knowing that I wouldn’t set foot on the publishing stage for a very long time. And even so, it might be still a few years from now.

It wasn’t until the last few months of 2017, I honestly felt okay with my quiet retreat from the author world. Instead, I stepped forward as an artist, and revealing, “Oh, hey, yeah. I draw sometimes.” And it was the first time I actually got paid for my art after ten years of giving it up.

I found joy in making art again, and creating swag and character designs for clients. Even drawing for fun of my own stuff, like my beloved boys from my crazy as fuck plant people dystopian. I drew a lot of those guys. A lot.

Like this scruffy dad potato.

[image error]The Broken by Lex Chase

And this precious floofer.

[image error]The Bloom by Lex Chase

I even could afford a new much higher end Wacom tablet as well as paid off my one and only credit card. I thank every client I have, and even my regulars who still commission me. Without you, none of it would have been possible.

I even started an art only Instagram. Which you can follow me here!

Hey, Lex, what happened to those bipolar blog posts?

In early 2017, I started to blog about being bipolar. Something near and dear to me, and something I feel near obsessively passionate about. I was motivated by Carrie Fisher’s death to keep the conversation going. Seeing friend after friend admit they have depression, or anxiety, or newly diagnosed with any mental illness like it was a shameful secret was honestly…exhausting. No one should ever feel ashamed. Ever. And the blog was helpful to many, and I regrettably fell off from doing it. Not from lack of interest, but from my own monsters in my head I needed to work out. I couldn’t help anyone else until I could help myself.

It wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago, I spoke to someone on Facebook who seemed down over something completely insignificant. But then after it spiraled, and we unpacked it all, I showed him the bipolar posts. And I’ll be damned if it didn’t fucking work. He was excited, encouraged me to keep going, and even started to make calls to get a therapist. In that moment, it was worth it. It truly did make a difference. And in 2018, I plan to restart it.

Well, Lex…now that you mention it, haven’t you lost weight?

In March 2017, I started a weight loss program. Something I did quietly instead of shouting from the rooftops. I’ve been very public about my struggle with my weight. I’ve yo-yo’d for years. And at GRL 2016, I tipped the scales at 290+ pounds. I actually cried in my hotel room as I struggled with simple things like trying to get dressed because I couldn’t bend over. As of today, I’m 216, and down 76 pounds. I tracked down a photo from just before GRL 2016, and today where I attempted to replicate the same pose, dirty mirror, and crap on the counter. It’s crazy to finally see the difference.

[image error]

Hello, 2018, pardon me if I hesitate to shake your hand…

So, as we look to 2018 with trepidation, we also can’t let ourselves fall into despair. Do what’s in your power, and what isn’t, leave it alone. Be kinder to each other. Call your Mom, your Dad, your siblings, whatever family you have and tell them you love them. Play a game with your kids, let them win. Hug your pets, even if they have no fucking idea what their giant hairless roommate is doing. Go outside. Even if it’s for a split second, even if you stand in the doorway, just go outside. Play PokemonGo, even if your friends think it’s stupid. Buy coffee for a stranger. Give a homeless person that bottle of water. Draw that thing you’ve been too scared to draw. Write that story even if you think it’ll suck. Audition for that role of a lifetime. Take that class that you always wanted to. Fuck, go back to school if you want to. Apply for that job. You might not get it, but at least you applied. Take that trip around the world. Get married. Or don’t get married. Or break up with that asshole, they weren’t good for you anyway. Come out. Or don’t come out yet, the world will still be here. Live your truth. Make good art. You are beautiful. You are loved. You persist.

Be good.

A Star Rises: Behind the Scenes of Design

Hello, Internet!

On August 28th, I launched a limited edition t-shirt campaign A Star Rises to benefit the victims of Hurricane Harvey. All proceeds go to Feeding Texas, who will provide aid to area food banks affected by the storm. And let me tell you, launching a t-shirt campaign when you’re doing it solo is omfg stressful. Learning experience for sure!

I’m here to show you what went into the idea, and how I came up with the final design for A Star Rises.

My BFF lives in Austin, and her parents and grandmother live in Houston. I’ve met her parents and they’re lovely people. Snarky, funny, and the masters of inappropriate jokes. Her mother even helped me figure out a sticky plot point with Grow. A neighborhood feral cat decided they were his forever people, and they affectionately named him Porchdick. Yes. I’m serious. Named after a douchebag character in The Walking Dead. He has a collar and everything that says Porchdick.

When Hurricane Harvey came ashore, her parents decided to stay with their home. There’s a levee around their neighborhood. They insisted they would be safe. Everything was fine and dandy. Harvey was expected to hit Austin as a Category 1, and the BFF hunkered down with groceries, supplies, and Aidan Gillen movies. Because Aidan Gillen.

Just look at this magnificent as fuck bastard.
[image error]Irish actor Aidan Gillen photographed in Dublin, Ireland for Independent on Sunday, New Review Magazine. Photographed by Thomas Ball. www.thomasballphoto.com

So all seemed well and good. Nothing to worry about. Everyone is perfectly safe.

Until everyone wasn’t.

On Sunday night, BFF received a text from her parents. The retention pond in their neighborhood was leaking, and they had to move everything important upstairs. The Brazos River was flooding, and was expected to crest at 55 feet. The levee around the neighborhood is 57 feet. The river was still rising, and water was coming in. And BFF’s parents insisted on staying with their home.

Understandably, the BFF was extremely upset about the idea of her parents being so stupid and the very real possibility they might not make it out alive. And me, here in Florida, I couldn’t do anything. Nothing I could say could make it better. And of course no one on the fucking planet wants to be told “It’s going to be okay.” When very clearly everything is not okay. All I could do was listen, and be there, and be the person she could commiserate with. I was five seconds from trying to find a flight to Austin so I could be there just to hold her hair as she puked from anxiety. Because when you’re besties for nearly 18 years, that’s what besties do.

I was just so powerless.

So, that night, the BFF went to bed not knowing if she’d have parents in the morning. And all I could do is sit by and wait for the update. I decided I needed to do something. And I thought, hey. I own a billion charity shirts, I’ll make one! How hard can it be!

Hah, ha-hah, ha-hah, hah. I’m so precious.

So that night, I slapped together a bunch of concepts. And here’s a peek at the originals!

First, I knew I wanted to do the Lone Star, and I wanted to incorporate the Texas state colors in some way. So I came up with this.

[image error]A Star Rises – Concept 1 by Lex Chase at lexchase.com

Kinda love it. But not quite. I really loved the tropical blue, but the colors were kinda arbitrary. Still really did love the tropical blue.

Next was this.

[image error]A Star Rises – Concept 2 by Lex Chase at lexchase.com

And I thought… Dallas Cowboys? Grey water? Oil? Uh, no.

And then this one.

[image error]A Star Rises – Concept 3 by Lex Chase at lexchase.com

Wtf? Blood? The fuck was I thinking?

By that time, it was going on nearly midnight, and I was getting frustrated. Enter other Austinite and author Clancy Nacht, who is a lovely human being and Fannibal. And really any Fannibal is one of my people. Clancy being a wellspring of input tossed some ideas my way. One of them being a shot of the interior of the Texas State Capitol.

 

[image error]The dome of the capitol in Austin, Texas, rises to 266 feet and is highlighted with ornate architecture, culminating with an 8 foot wide Texas Star at the top. This view was taken with a telephoto lens and looks straight up from the mosaic floor of the rotunda.

And I was like yaaaaaassss thiiiiiis. But…a little goat head-ish. Now you see it, don’t you?

So it was 1 am, and I got back to work. And at 4:30 am, this… this was it. A Star Rises.

[image error]A Star Rises – Official Design by Lex Chase at lexchase.com

And off to Bonfire, I went. And shortly after, the campaign was off to the races. Where I had to message every goddamn person I knew to get the word out. Call in all the favors. Every last one.

And then I waited for the update.

Was the BFF okay? Was her parents okay? Did Porchdick drown? All of these things ran through my head.

And I’m very happy to report, the water receded. The levee didn’t fail. And while there was water three feet up her parents’s driveway, Porchdick was high and dry in the garage. And as of today, their street is dry. Despite her parents worrying my BFF sick, she’s just relived she still has parents.

And while others in Houston may have each other, they may also have lost everything else. And that’s why I’m doing this. And that’s why I’m trying to get food and money to those who need it most. So give to Feeding Texas, and spread the word about an awesome shirt. And pick up one for yourself. I particularly love the espresso color. But there’s also black, charcoal, navy, and white.

Because I’m on my own here, and every little bit helps. So if you feel helpless, help in whatever way is in your power.

You can get A Star Rises here until September 12th. Let’s make a difference.

And now that you’ve hung on to the end, enjoy this Aidan Gillen eye candy.

Dat jacket tho.
[image error]Aidan Gillen from the set of Identity. Credit BBC.

Monday Feature at C.S. Poe’s Blog!

Hello, Internet!

In case you missed it, C.S. Poe invited me over to her blog for an interview. I talk about what it’s like to be an artist and the weirdest thing I have in my office space. If you thought my plush lymph node and plush anatomically correct heart was weird, wait until you see my plush bass fish. Yes. A bass.

Read all about it here!

I Puked in Yoga Class

Got your attention, didn’t I? Greetings, Dandelions! It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Far too long. It’s hard to share my crazy bipolar life when I have stuff to work on in my crazy bipolar life.

What is that “stuff?” That stuff would be self-care. And if you read one thing today, this is it.

The following statement I will need you to read between the lines for me. Ready?

It’s been zero days since last incident.

And that’s all I need to say about it. The world is stuck between a rock and a hard place, everything is so goddamn important, and everything is clamoring for our attention. We’re slapping smiley face stickers on sucking chest wounds and soldiering on. You feel you need to help. Everyone’s telling you, you must help. But right now, you don’t have the capacity to even help yourself.

Like they say on airlines: Place your oxygen mask over your face before assisting others.

You can’t help anyone if you’re suffocating.

Do I make sense now?

We have things like medications to keep us in balance, we require proper rest, and we must keep our bodies well and minds fortified for what’s coming our way. Because when you’re already mentally weakened, you can’t do anything about it. When you’re emotionally wounded, you berate yourself that you can’t do anything about it.

In my life, I could feel it all getting to me. I already had a general sense of “blech” trickling in. My sleep schedule was out of whack, and I wasn’t taking my medication on a proper schedule. Sometimes take it at the same time every night, sometimes two or three hours later. If I do that enough times, my mind isn’t in tip-top shape.

Compound this with the headlines, my daily life, the lack of sleep, the constant worry, the anger, the fear, the doubt, and feeding my depression. And as a creative-type, the lack of productivity. And when I don’t produce, I get depressed. My productivity goes hand-in-hand with keeping my spirits aloft.

What did I do about it?

First: I started locking myself out of social media via StayFocusd for Chrome, and Block Apps – More Productivity for Android. With both apps, you can set a scheduler and pick specific apps to block without locking yourself out of everything. So, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, all of that? I’m locked out until the evening every weekday with the weekends free. I set it to start running at 4 am, long before I’m awake. So, it removes the need for me to summon the will to turn it on because what’s one more Tasty video?

Once upon a time years ago, I was a hardcore gamer and fell into a severe internet addiction. I could feel that addiction coming back again. And it had to stop. So, I had to block apps, or else I’d go down the rabbit hole.

Second: I sleep with my devices out of my room. I mean it. I’ll repeat it until I’m blue. If you need an alarm clock, buy one. Otherwise, take your damned phone/tablet/whatever out of your room. If I had a nickel for every time I caught my father staring at his phone at 3 am in his bedroom, I’d own SpaceX. (And I’d really love to own SpaceX. I can dream!)

Third: The grand reason y’all clicked this link, I started taking yoga classes.

I’m not here to tell you that omg yoga is the best eeeeveeer and to suddenly go paleo or whatever. I do yoga because for starters, it’s something on a schedule. And it requires me to get up in the morning and leave the house. And I get to take a 20 minute nap at the end of class—er—meditation. Yeah, meditate. Yeah. That’s it. Totally what I said.

I saw a news clip about aerial yoga. Short version is it’s that stuff aerial acrobats do with the silks. Long version is check out this YouTube clip.

I thought that would be hella fun, so I signed up. And I signed up for a couple regular classes too. I wasn’t expecting anything at first. I thought, whatever, I’ll try it a couple of times and if I don’t like it, whatever. I walk in anxious about possibly being late to class because I’m that lucky idiot who gets stopped by every red light. I worry about if I can’t do the poses right. I get nervous about getting the side-eye from the limber Mommy Bloggers in their athleisure wear.

And I walk out feeling refreshed, well rested, and ready to take on my week.

(Because I totally took a nap during meditation time. Let’s be honest.)

So, Sunday was my first shot at aerial yoga. This’ll be fun, I said. This looks cool, I said.

About 20 minutes in of swinging in a hammock, I’m feeling queasy. About 20 minutes and 30 seconds in, the instructor mentions she should have asked if anyone experiences motion sickness, because this could be a problem.

And I mentally say, oh fuck.

But I got this. I can tough this out. We do some more poses, and a few more gentle swings, and I’m mentally telling myself to relax.

And then it hits me. It’s happening.

I discreetly excuse myself to the bathroom to…uh…worship the porcelain god. And I decide right then and there if I’m going to stick around and tough it out, or if I’m going to head home.

I decide, in the act of self-care, I’m going to head back to the ranch.

Two Tylenol, some noodles with butter, and a few glasses of water later, I’m alive enough to write this post. And I’m alive enough to look back and bust out laughing about it instead of feeling humiliated.

But that’s the point. I acted in self-care to try the class, and I also acted in self-care to leave if it got to be too much.

And that is the moral of the story, Dandelions. If you feel it’s an act of self-care to try, go ahead! Do whatever you think is best. And do what is in your power. Is it joining a protest? Making your voice heard? Blogging? Petitioning? Writing a novel? Or maybe dancing? Or writing down your feelings? Or is it simply cuddling with a pet and appreciating you are responsible for keeping this creature alive and this creature loves you?

But also know when it gets to be too much, and the world gets to be far too loud, you 100% have permission to act on self-care to leave.

You’re not failing anyone, you’re not letting anyone down. You’re collecting your thoughts, finding your center, and listening to what your mind, soul, and spirit are saying to you. Dearest Dandelions, we’re more sensitive than most. We’re more in tune with love, loss, joy, and pain. And those who think they’ve never seen the world the way we have, don’t understand why we have to back away. We feel deeply, and we hurt in ways no one can imagine. And we only have the capacity to care so much until it gets unhealthy for us. So, care in only the way you can.

As my yoga instructor says “If you’re being stretched too far to the point it’s painful, stop. Move only within your limit, and that’s okay.”

So, Dandelions, move within your limits.

And that’s okay.

Namaste.

[Flash Fiction] Welcome Back Roe Horvat!

Hello Internet! Welcome back Roe Horvat for today’s Flash Fiction! In today’s story, there’s one thing about putting in the time for a relationship, but what happens when your boyfriend exists on another timeline all-together?

Silver Dust by Roe Horvat

 

Jens slapped at the shower handle to stop the water. He strained to listen. Tap. Tap. Tap. Only water dripping down. Silence. And then a dull thud. From inside of the apartment. A squeak of a chair on linoleum. Jens popped the shower door open quietly, sticking his head out. He’d left the door to the bathroom ajar. The bedroom window was open, too. It had been another hot August day, and the apartment was stuffy.

Reaching for the towel, he clutched it to his chest and stilled. Another quiet squeak. His heart beating wildly, Jens scrubbed the towel down his torso perfunctorily and wrapped it around his waist. In his mind, he searched for a weapon. His gaze swept his surroundings. A hamper, four shampoo and shower gel bottles, a tube of hair product. Henry’s shaving kit. The rail holding the towels was screwed tightly to the wall. The electric toothbrush had a sharp steel shaft sticking up, maybe one inch long? He grimaced at that thought. A toilet brush? God, he was hopeless.

He took three careful steps toward the door and peeked into the bedroom. It was dark, illuminated only by the street lamps outside. The curtains swayed infinitesimally from the weak draft. All was quiet for now. The bedside tables? But Henry never kept any of his guns in the apartment. Jens was now mildly annoyed at his husband’s overprotectiveness.

He snatched his cell phone from the bedside table. It vibrated in his hand with a waiting message. He ignored it, and holding his phone tight, made his way noiselessly over the carpeted floor closer to the kitchen. Just then a loud crash made him jump.

Glass shattering.

Sweat broke out all over Jens’s freshly showered body. He shivered despite the heat. A panicky, probably stupid plan formed in his head. He’d sneak closer to the kitchen and try to have a look. If he’d see or hear anyone—anything—he’d call the police.

He made three more careful steps, cringing at the small sounds that his wet feet made on the wooden floor of the hallway. One more step. He leaned to the side and listened some more. The apartment was completely silent again. He reached the corner and stopped breathing. A quick peek. He was convinced that whoever was in the kitchen must hear his heart thumping by now. He had to do it. Now. Coward! Move!

He stuck his head out and turned around so fast he got dizzy. He was back and glued to the wall in the hallway. His eyes squeezed shut when his brain first registered what he saw. He peeled away from the wall and slowly stepped into the kitchen. There was no broken glass. The light coming through the windows was faint but enough for him to see clearly. He walked slowly, first entranced, then exasperated. Bracing his arms against the table, Jens heaved a sigh.

Henry, you freaking lunatic, he thought, not for the first time.

In the middle of the table stood a tall clear vase with a single red rose in it. The flower seemed freshly cut, and it shimmered with the telltale silvery dust of time continuum having been broken recently. Jens could still smell it in the air, the familiar, pleasant, smoky scent, like from a distant campfire, with a faint trace of cinnamon in it. But the intense fragrance of the rose took over quickly. Under the vase was a note on a blueish, lined piece of paper and a white envelope. The silver dust was already disappearing from those.

Sorry. I crashed the vase on my first try. Went back and fixed it, though. Look inside and keep those safe for us. Saturday night? Don’t worry about clothes. I’ll find us something.

Love

Henry

Jens stroked the tiny but perfectly legible handwriting with his thumb. The dust was now completely gone, but the memory of it lingered. Just like it had done two days ago when Henry had slipped home for just a couple of hours in the middle of the night. Jens had tasted the dust of time on Henry’s skin. Campfire smoke and cinnamon. Wrapped tight in Henry’s long, sinewy limbs, he’d been almost falling asleep when Henry had spoken for the first time that night.

“I talked to Anna yesterday. I’ll quit in October.”

Jens had tensed, and Henry must have felt it. He’d tightened his arms around Jens and nuzzled his neck.

“Shh. Not your fault. It’s good news.” He’d sighed and pressed his lips into the soft hair on Jen’s nape. “I’m tired, baby,” he’d said. “Exhausted, really. And I miss you. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t want you to live like this. I want to move somewhere closer to the shore. Get a dog. Take long walks. I’m going to work in research—mission prep work—from home.” Jens could hear the smile in Henry’s voice. And the longing. “Two more months of traveling and I’m done. We’re going to get a dog. And a cat.”

Jens’s eyes had burned behind his eyelids. He’d taken hours to fall asleep again after Henry had left that night.

Two more months.

Curious now, he carefully pulled the envelope from under the vase.

There were two smallish pieces of paper, yellow with red and black print on them. They looked like vintage movie tickets

Rolling Stones Concert

Tuesday Evening 8:00 p.m.

Admit 1

The Capital Centre

July 1, 1975

No Refunds of Exchanges

Jens barked out a loud laugh and slapped a hand over his mouth.

Apparently, he was going to Washington D.C. to see Rolling Stones live. On Saturday. Except it would be Tuesday. In 1975.

Don’t worry about the clothes…

He could already picture Henry in the tightest of pale blue flared jeans and a furry vest. Henry always overdid the costumes.

Two more months. Jens could probably make it for two more months.

[Flash Fiction Friday] August Li Drops In!

Hello, Internet! Today I have another first time guest for Flash Fiction Friday, welcome August Li! Gus as we affectionately call him, brings us a fantastic tale of remembering when things were beautiful, but beware, memory can be deceptive.

The Gardens at Fontainebleau
by August Li

It hangs in the second-floor double drawing room, not far from the bay window with its view or the river and, on a clear day, Battersea Park on the opposite bank. It stands out against the hunter green walls and looks at home amongst the Georgian furnishings that came with the flat.

Once, I considered it my finest accomplishment to have made something so lovely. It filled me with pride to look at the delicate threads and careful french knots that told the story of that happiest of days.

A girl sits in the Italianate gardens beyond the château, the building and grounds scholars would later claim brought the Renaissance to France. She sits on a stone bench beside a fountain, her face swarthy and her nose too long, her trumpet-sleeved brocade dress a fashion from years ago—some bumpkin hauled to the palace as a mistress for one of the lords. There, captured in silk thread: her slack-jawed awe at the opulence around her, the daffodils at the hem of her gown, the new leaves on the trees shading her from the sun, the leather bible on her lap. Even the gemmed brooch she wears is immortalized in little whorls of thread.

Behind a hedge, a woman even less suitable to this bastion of wealth and civilization peers out at the new arrival. She is rakish and wild-looking, with hair like old straw and skin sure to blister as soon as she steps from her shaded haven. Her hand is lifted as if to reach out, and ferns and foxglove trail off into the shadows behind her. A fox hides among the bracken.

I’d spent weeks embroidering ever leaf, every blossom. I’d agonized over the wraith-woman’s expression, desperate to capture at least a little of her fascination upon peeking through that gap in the shrubbery.

Because I had been utterly ensorcelled by the sight of her, and I needed to record it. Words were too risky; a journal could be found and read. Paint and stone were unsuitable for well-bred women of that time—and even charlatans like I was, and in so many ways, still am.

No one looking at the embroidery would know of the longing it hid, the days spent watching from a curtain of glossy foliage, the eventual slow steps across the carpet of grass. Of the way bolder hints adorned the acceptable conversations like pearls along the edge of a lace ruff. Nothing in the tidy stitches belies nights in the countryside beneath the moon and evenings of sweat-damp chemises and candlelight.

Not even the wildest imagination might conjure visions of the magic that pulsed through this land long before any Roman sandal touched it, magic carried in whispers around campfires, in the wind through the trees, in dreams stirring in cairns and mounds where more than bones rested. No, nothing in such an idyllic scene summons thoughts of old gods or pacts writ in blood—those memorialized only in the heads and hearts of people like me, who had seen them made, broken, and finally covered beneath the trappings of so-called decency and progress. And now the sharing of them, the siren call of power they held, might win me what I most wanted.

I could offer her something no other living person possessed.

The man who’d brought her to the palace received the first taste of the skills I’d taught her. He was a rotund, red-nosed drunkard who farted when he came, and she despised him. She’d wanted to use the blade, see his blood spill black under the stars…. It hadn’t been easy to persuade her toward poison.

Perhaps I should’ve known then.

But I had been so proud of what I had made, the culmination of my memories and talents and secrets.

This thing. Looking at it now, looking it at for the hundredth time or maybe the thousandth, all I see are things done wrong: the chain-stitching is irregular, the satin stitch full of gaps. The floss has faded over the years, grown dull and begun to fray.

Everyday I find another mistake. Everyday I despise it more. All I can see is what should’ve been done differently.

Done better.

I turn away, walk downstairs, and take an apple and a cup of tea into a garden worth more than most houses in London—another reward reaped through dark deeds and mystic covenants. I read, and I watch the squirrels and starlings in the walnut tree. By the time I hear the garage door opening and the soft purr of her Aston Martin, a blanket of cloud obscures the sunset, smudging the fiery colors. A mix of rain and mist mute the verdant spring growth, washing the garden in minty silver.

She goes inside and calls out. A light comes on in the kitchen. Moments pass, and though I hear nothing more, I sense her there and turn to see her coming up the garden path, moisture sparkling on her leather jacket, strands of hair stuck to her face.

At her hip, the long knife with the serpentine blade she favors almost exclusively and has done for years. Decades.

Across the chest of her ivory blouse, a group of red dots like a spray of hawthorn berries.

She flicks her tongue across her teeth when she sees me looking at it.

“Business or pleasure?” I ask.

She arches a brow. “What difference does it make? It’s blood for the lady with three faces. The crow mother. And money for us.”

“It’s blood for you.” I shake my head, unwilling to have the same debate about the difference between devotion and serial killing. “It’s my fault.”

“You don’t get to take credit for me any longer,” she says. “I’ve paid you back a hundred times for the talents you passed along. I’m grateful to you for giving me the means to control my own destiny, but I have reciprocated.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing all these years?”

She steps closer and curves an arm around my waist. Heat rises off her body, and I catch the metallic scent of her latest kill. Who was it this time? A high-profile hit or just a hapless bastard in a pub? A man or woman chosen at random in a shop and stalked and culled like a beast? Her breath is warm against my ear as she says, “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Come on. Let’s get out of this chilly damp for a bit. Go to Spain. Maybe Greece. Have fun like we did in the old days, running naked through the waves and the fields. Eating grapes off the vine. Getting drunk on a balcony and sleeping until afternoon. Laughing at the entitled pricks who thought death couldn’t find them.”

“This was never meant to be about ego,” I tell her. “It’s not even meant to be justice. Only a bargain.”

Her tongue against my neck raises goose-flesh. “It’s been too long since we made an offering together. Our gifts were beautiful.” Her laugh is husky. “Just like all those tapestries you made. Especially the one in the drawing room.”

It had been beautiful, but the years had warped the stitching and leached the hues from the threads. The whole piece was threadbare and pulling itself apart, a tangle of twisted string.

String that should be cut. I reach to the tabletop where my empty teacup sits filling with rainwater. Beside it, the knife I used to peel the apple. It’s been a long time since I used a blade, but the memory lives in my skin and sinew, and cool, smooth steel is as familiar as my own body—as hers—as the last light of the day glints off the edge.

You Are Not Garbage

Well everyone, here we find ourselves again. Unbeknownst to everyone, I had planned my mental health posts every two weeks. And only known to me, I’ve blown that deadline twice in a row. Honesty is the best policy! So let’s get back on track! This is a revisit of one of my way older topics from yesteryear. And you, Dandelions, are in for some tough love.

Stop treating your body like a dumpster.

Why? I’ll tell you why.

In 2012, Chuck Wendig wrote a blog post about 25 Things Writers Need To Stop Doing and #9 on that list was “Stop treating your body like a dumpster.” It resonated deeply with me. I’ve struggled with my weight ever since I hit puberty thanks to my medication. I’ve done Spark People, Weight Watchers, and have been pressured into losing weight to make others happy and save relationships. I either had great results, but it all piled back on, or I never lost any. It’s discouraging.

And the medications definitely don’t help.

And you say “Duh. The easiest answer is to stop taking the medication.”

And that is where you are very wrong and ill-informed, and that’s a whole post on why medication is good for another day. For me, my meds, in short keep me from becoming psychotic and homicidal. Not a metaphor. Not a joke. The cocktail I take is some strong stuff and makes me able to maintain a functional quality of life, out of a psych ward, or a prison.

One of my meds in particular is strictly an anti-psychotic. And like all anti-psychotics, they have a major factor that contributes to weight gain. It’s almost an unspoken secret in the mental health industry. Take a medication to improve your life, and be happy, but at the cost of weight gain. I was pretty much resigned to the idea of “Do you want to be a size 6, or do you want to stop crying every day?”

I’ve never been a size 6 (if you count when I was 6), but I did get down to a size 14 from a size 38 once upon a lifetime ago. Even while medicated. Why?

Because I stopped treating my body like a dumpster. We see it all the time in books on writing craft, or online in stupid Facebook ads, or TV like Biggest Loser, we get needled to take care of ourselves. Like go for a walk, eat a vegetable, drink more water, get more sleep. How many times have we said “Yeah, yeah. Sure, whatever.” Ask yourself Dandelions, did you say that today? Yesterday? The day before? I bet you did.

But then we’re brainwashed into thinking being healthy = being beautiful. And there are ads everywhere for that and discussions on ideal beauty. This is definitely a discussion for another day and one I’m not particularly good at.

But no matter your shape or size, even if you want to shed a few pounds, or more specifically, get off that blood pressure medication or control your blood sugar? You have come to the right place.

Dandelions, I’ll level with you. We make a fuckton of excuses. We know them all. And we find ways to keep making them.

We make excuses out of fear.

“If I go to the gym, people will see me.”

“I don’t like vegetables, so I’m not going to waste money.”

“It’s too hot/cold/wet to go outside.”

My fave: “Sleep is for the weak!”

One: You don’t have to go to the gym. I don’t even have a gym membership. Two: Have you honestly tried a vegetable and prepared it in an appetizing way? Because no. Three: You don’t have to go outside. Even walking around your house is just fine. Four: For the love of god, please sleep. Sleep is good. Very good.

Dandelions, you are given only one body. No matter the shape it comes in, take care of it. I’m not asking you. I’m not saying pretty please. I’m saying get off your ass and do something.

Because if not now, when?

I used to feel like I had to do all-or-nothing, go in whole-hog. I can tell you, I failed every time. And you will too. Start simple. Super simple and super small. Try these:

Drink an extra glass of water during the day. Just one.

Watching TV? Walk to the bathroom and back during the commercial breaks.

Trying to sleep? Sleep with your phone and other devices (no tablets or laptops!) out of the room. Need an alarm clock? Buy an alarm clock.

Now say you have to leave the house. We all do eventually. Kids, school, work, etc. But what about fun things? Like going to movies, or the mall? I see a lot of movies. Like a lot. And because Pensacola is a podunk town we don’t have reserved seating at movie theaters. Which means I stand in line for popular movies a lot. Getting up at 6am for a 7pm showing of Rogue One? Yup. That was me! But walk around the movie theater grounds. You’ll be sitting anyway for a 2 to 3 hour behemoth slog of a movie. (Looking at you Pirates of the Caribbean. Do we really need another one?)

At the mall? Now, you don’t have to become one of those mall walkers who get up at o’dark-thirty, because who has the time? Unless you want to! But out shopping? You don’t have to worry about people staring at you because everyone else is walking around too doing their own thing.

Easiest trick ever that’s a no brainer? Park farther away if you have to go somewhere.

Now what about fruits and vegetables? You say “They’ll go bad before I eat them!” And I say, “Because you’re buying too much of them.” You really can buy just one apple, or one banana, or orange, plum, avocado, whatever! Stuff that’s priced by the pound? Like grapes? And I can put away some grapes. You can just take some out of that little plastic package and distribute them in other packages. No one cares! The grocery police won’t stop you.

I challenge you to try one new fruit or vegetable a week. Just one. Even dried fruit is fine! My faves are dried apricots, mango, and pineapple, and dried cranberries. I eat sun-dried tomatoes like jerky. It’s actually good.

Still have no idea where to start? Here’s my ultimate favorite and easy recipe involving grapes. Love Sour Patch Kids? Oh yeah. Sour Patch Kid Grapes are fucking amazing. Dump sugar-free Jell-O powder in a ziplock bag, add grapes, shake it up to coat, and dump those tasty grapes in a bowl! Save the rest of the Jell-O powder for later! Still don’t trust me? Here’s a video!

And now, Dandelions, since you toughed it out to the end of this post, I’m going to do something a little…unusual. I’m an author? Right? Riiiiiight? Writers love doing giveaways.

So how about a giveaway! What do you have to do? For the next two weeks, let’s keep each other accountable, tell me the one healthy thing you attempted! Did you drink an extra glass of water? Did you walk to your mailbox and back? Did you sleep with your phone out of the room? Did you gasp try a fruit or vegetable? Tell me aaaaall about it in the comments!

Two winners will walk away with their choice of any of my eBooks from Dreamspinner Press or DSP Publications! Your choice of titles you can find here, and here.

You have two weeks.  Winners will be chosen June 7th with the next post.

Ask yourself: if not now, when? We have only one body, but a lifetime of chances.

Take a chance.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Welcome Thianna Durston!

Hello, Internet! Welcome Thianna Durston as a first time player for Flash Fiction Friday! In today’s tale, a loving couple get more than they bargained for when their adorable pet chihuahua finds himself a new toy.

Mikey’s Toy
by Thianna Durston

“What a day,” Stalt exclaimed, faer eyes bright and shining as fae walked in the door. “Mrs. Baylor brought in her St. Bernard and he had a huge bite taken out of his hide. I don’t know what he got into, but man.” Fae leaned over and brushed a kiss to my brow. “How was your day, love?”

All day long I’d waited for faer to come home to point out the newest toy faer dog Mikey brought home and fae disarms me with a smile and a kiss. “Interesting. Go clean up. Steaks are almost done. By the way, Mikey’s home.”

“Mikey!” Stalt’s pleased tone bounced through our tiny bungalow and Mikey’s answering “Yip” sounded just as happy.

By the time they stepped onto the back patio, the steaks were done and the table was set.

“Told you he’d turn up,” Stalt said with a smile as fae handed Mikey a piece of steak. “He can never stay away for too long.”

“Three weeks,” I reminded faer after taking a bite of my steak. “I’m surprised he found his way back. So, what bit Mrs. Baylor’s dog in the ass? Don’t tell me… whatever it was, was after her.”

Coughing a laugh, Stalt took a drink of water. “We have no idea what it was. Thankfully Fido is up to date on all his shots.”

Of all the things about Mrs. Baylor that bothered me, her naming a two hundred pound dog Fido was at the top of my list. “How long will it take for him to recover?”

“Months. Part of the bone was gone. She tried to pass it off as him getting hit by a car, but no car takes a chunk of skin, bone, and sinew out and leaves none of it behind.” Fae sipped on faer water. “It was the strangest thing. I could swear some animal took a bite out of him but I can’t think of anything that big that would take a bite and not claw him to pieces as well.” Fae stretched faer shoulders and yawned. “Glad I’ve got the next two days off. With all the strange accidents befalling our canine and feline friends lately, I’ve been run off my feet.”

Mikey hopped up on faer leg, his tail lashing fast back and forth. He barked. “I’m not giving this to you,” Stalt said, waving toward the bone. “You’ll get steak juice everywhere.”

“He probably wants his own bone back,” I said, sending the little dog a glare. I still wasn’t sure how he’d dragged the thing back with him. It was several times his size.

With a cock of faer brow, Stalt grinned. “Brought back another bone, did he?”

“Let’s clean up and then you can see what he brought back. It’s disgusting.”

With a vet for a life partner, one would think I would have gotten used to the discussion of body parts. So far, I still turned green at the thought, let alone the sight of one.

Since I’d barbequed, it didn’t take long and once we made sure Mikey was inside and not out where he could go running off into the woods again, I pointed toward the small room Stalt used as a laboratory. “I put it in there. And I’m not going in.”

Fae smiled and nodded, whistling for Mikey to follow faer to the lab. Over the year we owned the little chihuahua, he had brought back many things: rabbits paws, a claw, a rat’s tail, and the—up until now—worst thing, a small skull of some creature I preferred not to name. This, though, was over the top. For one thing, it was several times the three-pound dog’s size. For another? It had been covered in blood, which meant it was new.

Made me wonder about little Mikey. What did he do, sit and wait until some larger animal had killed and fed and then took off with whatever was left over? It was creepy. Which was just one of the many reasons I did not allow Mikey in our bedroom. I wasn’t sure I trusted him, no matter how cute he was.

“Adam, come look at this.” I didn’t want to, but Stalt’s excited tone was too much for me to ignore. I went as far as the door jamb and waited. He looked up, the specialized goggles on his face allowing him to see far more than he could with the naked eye. “Did you see this?”

“I did when I picked it up.” The grimace in my tone was clear to me. Fae didn’t seem to notice.

“It still has some of the skin and tendons,” fae said in amazement. “Which makes no sense. If something this big was brought down, whatever it was would have killed Mikey, not let him take the femur.”

“It was part of the leg then?” I asked, feeling as though I should say something. All I wanted to do was ask faer if we could throw it out.

“Yes,” fae said, humming quietly. “Part of a leg. Look here. You can see where the bone was ripped apart. And this skin is unique. It looks more amphibian than mammal.” Faer voice took on a sense of awe. “This creature must be huge.”

“Come on, Stalt,” I said, inching away. “You know every animal on the face of the planet. What was it?” Fae knew I didn’t like these kinds of games. Just tell me what the bloody thing was so I wouldn’t create horrible ideas in my head.

Fae stood up straight and wrapped the bone in some plastic before removing faer gloves. Fae turned off the lamp and ushered Mikey out.

Stalt took me by the hand and led me into our living room. “Try not to freak out, Adam, but I’ve only seen something like it once. The thing is—it’s not supposed to exist. Not anymore, anyway.”

[Flash Fiction Friday] Sera Kane Joins The Party!

Hello, Internet! Sera Kane joins us here today for Flash Fiction Friday. She brings us a beautiful piece of a Phoenix and a goddess, and the recounting of the day the ocean turned to blood.

Worthy Offering by Sera Kane

 

Vengeance is a terrible reason to live, and a worse reason to die.  I have watched the cycle through time immortal, through peace and war and, now, captivity.  I saw the Phoenixes as they lived so lovingly with each other, I saw how they died together—mother cloaked in the flames of the father—I saw the birth of their child.  In that child, I see only hatred.  Zir anger burns hotter than zir parents’ sacrifice.

The day of reckoning is coming.

The ogre who owns us rattles his way into our tent, muttering to himself.  He tosses bread into my lap and reaches out a hand to touch my hair, but I simply duck from the touch.  No one may touch me anywhere but my feet.  He laughs, a raucous, vicious sound, certain of my captivity despite the lack of bars surrounding me..

This body will not be Kumari forever. Right now, however, I am a living goddess of my people, far from them as I may be.  I cannot speak to anyone but the family I was stolen from.  My feet may not touch the ground.  I watch my painted nails as I gently pull apart the bread, and I listen instead of watching.

‘Stupid bird,’ the ogre says because he knows not his mortality.  ‘Stupid boy.  I should sell you to the Mer, they’d love to have your type.’

The Phoenix says nothing, because ze has learned, finally, to keep zir beak shut.  Coal black eyes, though, they speak of what shall come.  The ogre takes time for his chants, to be certain that the cage of water remains strong in the face of the Phoenix’s flame.  He does not feed zir yet, for as idiotic as it is for an ogre to cage a Phoenix, he’s not so stupid as to give zir the strength to break free.

Muttering, muttering, the ogre takes his leave and now I look up through my lashes to watch him go.  I feel my third eye opening wide, the feeling scratchy and familiar beneath the symbols painted on my skin.  I see the world on fire.  I see ashes.  I see the ocean.

“I will make him burn.”

I tilt my head to look at zir, chin still tucked down.  I cannot speak to zir.  However, I am a goddess.

When I rise above my painted throne, my feet do not touch the ground.  The goddess moves in me who is also she and I go to my fellow prisoner.  Between the liquid bars, I hold out piece after piece of bread, which ze accepts with zir head held high.  Ze is royalty by blood, and ze knows it.

“You know what I am,” ze says.  Our black eyes meet each other and I can feel the tears trailing down my cheeks.  “Oh.”  Zir eyes unfocus, seeing past the cage, past me.  “Oh,” ze says softly.  “Yes.”

I feed zir the rest of the bread and float back to my chair.  I arrange myself gently, the tears falling to the red silk of my dress, soaking in.  It is nearly time, and I am as saddened as I am relieved.

Salt soaked breezes open the day of Ends.  I awaken and rub my eyes, then look to my fellow captive.  Ze is staring at the tent entrance.  I remember zir birth, I remember zir awakening, when ze realized who and what ze was.  Not the abandoned child of peasants, as the ogre once claimed.  Not the boy who deserved to be beaten, as the ogre tried to insist.  Ze was more than what the ogre tried to define zir as and today was the day of reckoning.

Only one person knows what truly happened the day the ocean turned to blood.  That person is me.

The ogre comes for the Phoenix’s cage, drives it forward with pulses of water magic.  The Phoenix, ze waits.  I follow, as though a ghost, for my part in the coming story.

The Mer hover at the edge of the ocean, chittering excitedly as the ogre’s burden comes into view.  They jostle each other, a small, swift fight breaking out and just as quickly is finished through a knife to the heart.  A kindly race, the Mer are not.

The ogre boasts of his prize, hands waving, and the Mer cluster closer.  Some with their own small magics poke through the bars to stab at the Phoenix with blades of water.  Ze smokes and sizzles and does not react.

The Mer are displeased, and the ogre begins to gesticulate wildly.  I don’t need to hear the words to know what they are.

‘Weakling.’

‘Useless.’

‘Boy.’

‘Undeserving.’

‘Parents.’

‘Dead.’

‘Because.’

‘Of.’

Then the screaming begins.

The closest Mer simply char to ash as the Phoenix’s rage burns through zir bonds.  The scene is obscured by a wall of steam, the Mer’s cries full of their fear.  I draw closer, knowing what is to come.

A slow burning flame takes over the air, no more quick deaths allowed.  Skin blackens, flaking off, desperate screams for mercy, for water, for life.  They do not stop for there is no mercy here, the water is filled with blood, and death is the final destination for all.

The Mer are nothing to the Phoenix.  Now that ze is free, now that zir wings are unbound, zir hand closed tightly around the ogre’s throat.  Zir mouth opens and zir shriek is full, righteous, and agony.  Zir words make no sense, just anger and pain.  Ze has doused the flames on zir hand so the ogre cannot die quickly, so he must face what he has done.

The Phoenix screams and sobs and shakes and nothing can remove the terrible weight on zir shoulders.

“Why, why, why,” ze mumbles, again and again, as though somehow the next question will answer the litany.  The ogre cannot speak, his vocal chords seared in the Phoenix’s initial pulse of rage.

Of course it’s not enough, it can never be enough once tragedy has visited.  The words grow louder, angrier, and more powerful, and now ze is an inferno, zir flames glow blue, then black.

I reach zir then as the ashes of zir enemy fall like snow between darkened fingers, drifting atop the reddened waters below.  I open my arms and ze shakes zir head, afraid.  Perhaps of hurting me, perhaps of the cost of my offering.  I must wait because redemption cannot be forced.  It is zir choice to seek out peace.

My arms are full of feathers, flame, and fear.  Zir tears are flecks of lava against my skin, and I draw zir closer, resting my cheek atop zir head.  It is my blood that washes over zir, that cleanses away the black, returning zir to zir former glory. My tears are red, dripping with the rest down my body, until it looks as though my dress is the one bleeding, until it looks as though I and my dress are the same thing.  Until even that small defense is gone and I am still dressed in red and ze shrinks as ze burns away.  I hold zir as ze becomes smaller and smaller, harder and harder.  Until there is only a hardened black stone where once a proud creature lived.

And I am tired, so tired.  I am falling, the egg held close to my chest, and the ocean is red below, tainted or cleansed by the blood of a goddess.  Sand against my feet is a strange sensation, sand on my whole body is sharp shards of pain.  I am no longer as I was; there is only me within my skin, but it hurts and I am weeping and where are you, where are you—

Here.  Her touch is upon my head.  I do not have to be a worthy vessel if I am a worthy offering.  Hope is a difficult reason to die, and it is a wonderful reason to live.