Send Me An Angel (rev2)

My friends and I believe I met an angel in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Here’s the story…

We’re at the Center of The Universe! The festival, that is, although the psilocybin and cannabinoids and diazapam coursing through my body makes me feel as if I’m standing on the sun. Arms swinging gaily, feet bee-bopping as my team travels towards the main stage, I am feeling rather…superior.

Riding the wave of musical enlightenment, I spy from the corner of my eye a herd of blue boxes. I stop walking and proclaim, Necesito mear!” which means, I need to pee. My girls round the bend and lean against a poster-bedecked wall while I experience the rare joy of no line for the port-o-potties!

I exit the pee terminal and locate the wash stand. Now this is cool; a foot pump to deliver the water, a touch-less soap dispenser, ahh hands-free technology! Fulfilled by this first world wonder, I then open my backpack to search for hand lotion. The bag’s darkness mixed with my intoxication fills me with desperation. As the harried search continues, I notice a group of festival-goers carrying on in laughter and play. Without looking up, I feel one of them drifting over.

You’re just digging away in that bag!” he comments merrily. I offer an apprehensive look. His hands are behind his back.

Suspicious, I declare in my head space, “Go ahead and try me buddy, I’m fucking Wonder Woman right now!”

The jovial stranger, taller than I, lowers his shoulders so we’re face to face. In a contented voice he says, “I want to give you something.” His hands flutter from behind his back to his temple, removes blue eyeglasses without lenses, then waves them towards me.

I smile and refuse politely; in turn, he’s sweetly adamant. I shake my head as I take him in: wide smile, dark blue fitted ball cap matching his eyes, endowed with a Bruce Campbell chin. His body is immaculately sculpted.  Madre de Dios…this dude is HAWT!

Inside I feel a wash of achievement: it’s now natural for me to notice a person’s energy before I notice his facade.

Sweetie, I don’t want your glasses,” I insist.

He gestures towards me, “Take them!”

But I already have glasses.”

You’ll look great in them…”

But I need glasses to see,” I explain, “there’s no lenses; how am I gonna see?” I smile smugly, then squeeze my eyes shut, remembering to hydrate my contact lenses.

Courtesy: Kaytara
Courtesy: Kaytara

When I flutter them back open, he’s wearing the saddest look of dejection! I kick myself internally: aww dammit, I did that thing again where I say something that makes sense to me, but comes off dickish to them! Puppy eyed, tail tucked, he starts back-stepping towards his friends. “Come here,” I sigh, widening my harpy wings to encourage him back so I that can deliver an apologetic hug. “Come, come,” I insist.

His smile beams to the moon and back. His huge arms wrap around my tiny torso, then I feel, undeniably, the purest form of authentic happiness pierce my cynical skin and invade my corroded heart. Time splinters in fractals, gravity is no more, our bodies rock in synergy. I tighten my hold as if we’ve known each other for lifetimes.

Forever returns to right now. We pull apart.

I’m relieved to find my demonstration of loving kindness has restored his playfulness. He reaches out his hand. “High five!”

I extend my hand to flatten against his.

Now stick out your thumb,” he instructs.

I flex my thumb outwards. He does the same.

Now bring it in…”

I wrap my thumb around his hand. He does the same.

His face touches mine. “Hand hug!”

I smile. He smiles. Tears fall like cleansing waters.

Pay it forward,” he instructs.

I will!”


https://soundcloud.com/mp3-remixy/scorpions-send-me-an-angel

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Youse Gettin OLD Batboy

Batman75ColinJost

Not only was Colin Jost’s jab at Batman’s age so hilarious, it was very on point. 75 years with this “superhero” and the only thing that made him “super” was his belt.

My writing partner and I rant frequently about the nonsense that is the Justice League. First, how is it that Batman can quit, come back, quit again, and no one says, “You know what? Go do your own thing Batty!” He’s obnoxiously emo.

Then there’s the utility belt = superpower thesis? I mean, we’ve got Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman (why but okay still), Hawkman, I mean, beings of supernatural ability and deity status as founders of the Justice League, and Batman qualifies as an equal on that Pantheon? Beyond me.

So it’s been quite enjoyable to sidebar on the ridiculousness of Batman as we design a skeletal structure of a modern day Wonder Woman saga. While I never really invested much in Bruce Wayne, I will at least acknowledge his longevity and his influence on comic lovers. Yes, Batman. Everyone wants to be you.

Except me.

En homage to the Dark Knight, here’s an excerpt from my recent writing session involving Batman and Wonder Woman:

Diana exhaled a weighted sigh into her tensed fist. Just then, the quick swish signaling the door to the room opening carried towards her, followed by an outline of the familiar cowl and cloak of the dark knight. Hmph, Diana thought, Bruce Wayne decides to make an appearance in just this moment. So as not to look vulnerable, Diana straightened her shoulders and erected her spine, releasing her lips from her fist and rolling them inwards to regain moisture. As she finished the replenishment, it dawned on her the human might have taken the gesture the wrong way.

“Yes?” she snapped.

Batman continued his silent stroll towards her. “Brooding in the dark is my thing, Wonder Woman.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Am I stealing your thunder again?” She smiled, proud of her comeback, then glanced up at the shadowy form situating into the chair beside her.

“I deserve that.”

Diana arched an eyebrow in surprise.

In what seemed to be a rehearsed motion, both superheroes collapsed their backs against the large chairs, leaned back, and crossed their hands over their laps. They sat in tandem silence for quite some time. Batman and Wonder Woman were most familiar in this place, the special stratosphere of melancholy. Where some faltered in navigating, the two seemed to master this particular space, their physical challenges no match to the crippling strength of their respective inner turmoil. The only difference between the two was one wore his pain like a shiny bright badge of righteousness, while the other tucked hers away, in an inconspicuous chamber of her Amazonian heart.

Diana maintained composure despite her worry, as it was the mortal’s nature to misconstrue this state as fragility; Batman, Bruce, using the tired technique of throwing his passion to her feet like a symbolic gauntlet of deliverance, expecting her to fall to collect him, lean on him, maybe even collapse in his arms, letting him rescue her from her agonizing dismay. Then he’d undress her, slowly, methodically, owning every centimeter of her body, converging his phallus with her god-made genitalia, trying desperately to inherit through coitus what was never and will never be intended for humans: the gift of immortality. Sex, then, was Bruce Wayne’s only way to feel most like Zeus, and in his arrogance and superiority, command Wonder Woman to be his Hera, with every thrust, inserting his will in the hope she’d accept him as his equal, or even better, by the sounding of her ecstasy, accept him as her master.

No, Diana decided, as she crossed one resolute thigh over the other. We’ve done that dance too many times.

 

 

 

Shields Up, Swords Down, Invoke Sister Code

amazons_howarddavidjohnson

This is a tough day.

The day prior, I spent two hours assessing all that’s brought me to the case that I am today, and with the unlock of that vault, the visions, the faces, the incidences all start rushing back to the limelight. My mind, always going, always processing, is working this fresh batch of latent emotion into the combine, making last night’s dreamscape a Who’s Who of nightmares.

I woke to terrible news having nothing to do with me.

The worst feeling a woman can have, the loss that’s uniquely our own to bear. While I couldn’t reach her I reached out, knowing she’d fallen, and she needs to know she can depend on me. I’ve done a horrible job demonstrating reliability recently, but it doesn’t change the rules of Sister Code.

We women consider ourselves independent and self-reliant, but it is in these moments regarding motherhood that sisterhood must be invoked. It is the loneliest place to be, the mind, when the womb is in trouble, and it is unfortunate that even the most sympathetic, caring male in our lives can’t possibly understand what it feels like…the loss of the light within.

I kicked myself hard for paying more attention to a female antagonizer then following up with my friend yesterday, somehow my lack of check-in caused this. She’s scared out of her mind and I’m conducting a senseless war?

Drop my sword on my e-enemy, rush to raise my shield over my beloved friend, and block the arrows volleying her way. That is sisterhood.

Von Simeon, International Woman of Action!

It is not a relief to hold your debut novel in print format. In fact, it is the opposite. Your back tenses up. Your face sours. Your lower sphincter tightens.

What the hell have I just done??

But then, your face loosens, slacking your cheeks enough to produce a smile.

There. The Dedication Page. The old boy telling me, “Good on ya! Finally! Well done, homie!” I always figured he called me that.

It looks good.

I flip through the pages. Bold, pronounced chapter numbers. Easy to read text. Good grouping, good flow. It looks. Good.

I scoff at my Author Page. The photo you guys picked made it in the book; thanks for taking that pressure off my mind.

I palm the back cover, at the gorgeous rendition of the protagonist, then flip to the front cover, and admire Marie Chapin’s beautiful disaster. The bold blue words revealing an inconvenient truth.

That’s when my hands start to tremble.

Holding a proof of my debut novel. Quite a moment.
Holding a proof of my debut novel. Quite a moment.

Three years. Three productive, revealing, empowering years, and the result is this novel. Not just another sci-fi story; it’s a Game Changer. Already receiving delighted buzz regarding its release, even fun expressions of impatience, both on the ground and in the ether. Friends from Canada down to South America, friends from the United Kingdom all through Eurasia. Friends in Oceania, the Middle East, Southeast Asia. A support network built solely from the launch of this WordPress blog. For your support and love via zeros and ones, I thank you.

Give me until April 4th to set up shop and then, the OFFICIAL release of I Blew Up Juarez. We are planning a Meet The Author event locally, and I’m working out the kinks to sponsor a virtual book reading hopefully around the same time.

Kava helps to work down my nerves.
Kava helps to work down my nerves.

I am going to keep a stash of printed books in The Treehouse too, so if you live in the United States and want a SIGNED copy of I Blew Up Juarez, please notify me via @VonSimeon, my LinkedIn page, or here in the Comments area, so I know how many to put aside once the shipment gets in.

Ahhhh….but there’s more.

Last week, I signed an agreement to be a contributing writer with Thirteen Press out of London. The short story you helped me edit will be featured in Night Walkers. I’m cleaning up another psycho-terror story to submit around summer, at the soonest. So yeah. Both sides of the pond, you can find Von!

Ahhhh…but there’s more!

My writing partner and I have committed to another project. We’re combining individually-developed Wonder Woman fan fiction into one saga. We had our first collaboration this morning at T and Me and it was awesome! While she immerses in studying all things Wonder Woman, I’m studying historical women warriors, starting with Queen Boudica and then, going back to my studies of the Dahomey warrior women. This shit’s about to get real.

Gotta love living in walking distance to a public library.
Gotta love living in walking distance to a public library.

Finally, I’ve submitted prose to a local literary journal with high probability of acceptance, and then, because I’m a zealot, I submitted a poem to a Goodreads poetry contest. Cross fingers I at least final; I haven’t written much poetry since I started developing Juarez.

So…what have you been up to?

Writing Prompt: Call Me Marzipan

NOTE: I took the challenge sicahue presented in my Ancient Astronauts post, and continued the story using the same writing prompt.

[Writing Prompt: Someone goes into a unique store and buys an odd item; time = 15 minutes]hierophant3

The small girl busied with twisting long braids into each other, creating one long rope down the prefect’s back. Meanwhile, another servant girl, about twelve years of age, looped a red scarf about a long, lean torso, holding it taut as it fastened right under the breasts, as she was trained. Both girls stepped back and allowed the prefect to adjust accordingly. A light nod to each of the girls’ directions caused them to smile appreciatively as they bowed. The younger girl motioned for a headdress adorned with grouse and ptarmigan feathers. The prefect lifted a hand, “Not yet,” then stepped forward and kneeled before the slate alter in the center of the room. The girls genuflected, brought their arms to cross over their chests, and entered into a chant with their master.

The room glowed brightly from behind the three. The two girls turned and squinted towards the light. The prefect, eyes still closed, drew a knowing smile across her face. The girls, recognizing the being approaching, lowered their eyes and bowed. The receiver looked astonished.

“About time my prodigal daughter came home. You’re about to miss the ceremony, girl! Come here, give me a hug.”

Key still in hand, she didn’t know what else to do other than hug this unfamiliar person.

“Master, should we fetch her garments?”

“Only if Ga wills it.”

“Hold it. My name’s Gail.”

The prefect laughed. The two girls entered into a laugh.

“Every day’s an adventure with my daughter. So I’m to call you Gael now? Well then, instead of Mother, you can call me Candy. Sweets! Marzipan! You never cease to entertain me, Ga.”

“Gail.”

“Oh right,” the prefect lifted her chin as she stroked Gail’s face, “Ga-el.”

Gail widened her eyes and quickly scanned the room. She had gone from a simple, solid door in the middle of a plain to a large, palatial room, lit only by arched windows cut along the rock walls. The woman calling herself Mother (Marzipan?) was dressed in a long black sheath with a red waist cinch. Behind her was an alter with a large gold statue of a wide eye. The two girls assisted her with placing a large gold plate over her chest and a large headdress.

“Daughter, aren’t you going to help me with the ceremony today? Lots of babies to bless. It was an especially cold winter, remember?”

“Uh.” Gail watched as the two girls approached her, hands folded in front of them, smiling as they awaited her response.

“Uh.” She tucked the key into the satchel hanging off her waist.

The prefect adjusted her headdress in the standing mirror once more, then returned to Gail.

“I suppose your wandering today has made you tired. I’m fine to do the ceremony on my own, but, my dear starchild, if you are to advance in the priesthood, you need to spend more time amongst your charges.” Marzipan wrapped her arms around Gail in a tight embrace. The cold gold burned her cheek.

Get Your Fat, Lazy Ass Out The Way

I get absolutely annoyed when I read discourse on women struggling to kick down doors to enter the entertainment industry. Look, the door’s been kicked open. WIDE open (Hurt Locker, anyone? ) The problem lies on the blobby, aged masses who happen to be male, whom restrict creative progress.

Not all, obviously. But we gotta stop with assuming the barrier still exists. The restrictions still exist. We need to use our charisma, strength and character to blow the sloths out the way.

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