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Thursday, August 28, 2014

Horror Story

Her baby was gone. She woke up alone, in the dark, and reached for the comforting, sleeping shape of her baby but it was gone. 

She wanted to cry out but something had been jammed down her throat, cold and plastic. A tube, right, right…this was the hospital. They did that in hospitals, but she had to talk, to tell someone, the baby was more important than comfort. She reached for her face and the tube blocking her throat.  Pain then more tubes moved with her hand. Awful pinching, and pulling tubes she plucked at them.

The baby—she could hear it crying. 

Help me. The scream didn’t come to her mouth. She wasn’t strong enough to get the wretched thing from her throat which ached with plastic and tears.

She passed out. 

When she woke, she didn’t remember the baby immediately and when she did she wondered how she could have forgotten. Perhaps there’d been drugs. Had they moved her from a place she’d been comfortable, hoping she’d forget. Why was she here and in so much pain?

The baby. They’d taken it from her. God, please, who were these people? 

She called out, made a sound at last. Someone touched her arm. She shrank back because a stranger stroked her arm and pretended to know her, called her by name. Her skin felt as if it burned under that touch.

“My baby,” she managed to croak.

“You weren’t admitted because of a baby.”

Liar, she wanted to scream the word but was too afraid. The calm certainty in that stranger’s face confused her and, worse, made her own memories crumble and scramble but no. she wouldn’t be fooled. She’d come here because of the baby. 

“You’re lying."

“Try to rest,” the stranger said. “Please? Close your eyes for me?”

“Why would I do anything for you? You took my baby. Where is this place?” So much discomfort. Why wouldn’t they give her something for the pain? “It hurts.”

“Why am I here?”

“Why am I here?”

“Why am I here?”

“Where is my baby?”

They didn’t answer.  Or they did and the answers slipped away.

“Close your eyes.” The order was more impatient this time.  Fear made her obey.

The next time she came awake…what had happened to put her here in this place, surrounded by people she didn’t know.

“Where’s my son?”

“He had to go to work.”

That had to be wrong. If it had been a test, they failed--because now she remembered she came to the hospital for the baby. “You’re lying.”

But then the doctor came in, distracting everyone, even her, and he talked to her in a voice that was too loud and made her head hurt even more.

“Help me,” she whispered.

“We are, I promise,” he said in that horrible jolly voice they used. “You need to relax. Take a deep breath.”

“But…Wait.” She needed something, an urgency they hadn’t addressed. “I don’t know.”

She was in the hospital.  

They talked about healing times and the words drifted past in a mumble and when she asked the people standing at her bed to repeat, they grew impatient.  “I told you that already.”

“Why am I here? Where is my baby?”

“Here.” A dark-haired man said. She had never seen him before--she'd swear to that.

She peered at his arms looking for the bundle wrapped in a white cloth with faded blue bunnies, pilled with use. She knew that blanket, the precise size of that bundle as big as her meatloaf pan. The man’s arms were empty. “I don’t see him.”

“I’m your baby.”

She was too afraid to tell this hulking, grim-faced stranger he lied. Her heart slapped hard at the instant his face became familiar and she knew he wasn’t lying. So much worse. She opened her mouth and a strange cry filled the air. That was keening hers for a lost baby in a blue-and-white cloth.

She’d lost a baby, a child, she’d lost a life. The pain was too large for any single body to hold and it had to come out.

“Hush, hush,” another stranger touched her. “Ma’am. Please stop. You’ll be fine, fine, attagirl.”

Like she was a dog. Something cold touched her arm, on the inside. An IV, she knew that was it was. Something cold in the IV.

For the pain of having a baby, she said to herself. Though I wanted to have him naturally, maybe this was better? She was comforted for a minute and she slept.

Panic hit her when she woke alone, in the dark. Where was her baby?
 

Friday, August 22, 2014

weird book

I'm listening to Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Lost Prince and it's a funky book that didn't age well, not like her other books. Written just before WW1 it has a strange kind of worshipful attitude about righteous war and royal blood. There's a whacko religious feel to it, pseudo-zen stuff.

Also odd? There is no mention of the two kids' mothers. Not so much as A  Word. These two kids are only products of their fathers....and the Princely One is exactly image of his father who's the exact image of an ancestor who died 500 years earlier.

I can tell she was writing for boys who have no interest in female events but still, you'd think there'd be a passing remark, like 'golly, wish your mom could see you now!' And the only attractive female in it is an evil spy. I'm not at the end so maybe a woman will jump up and say, "yo, hey! Here I am, your mother whom you've never even given a passing thought to!"

There's a homoerotic vibe too, everyone falls for the kingly dad in a big way and they vibrate with joy when he's around. He calls his kid "comrade" and sends him off to danger because it's for Samavia! All is for Samavia!

The descriptions of the cities and mountains are cool and the freedom of their adventures would probably appeal to kids.

But....

Just...i

t's a strange book.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

that time a strange black man accosted me

I was shoveling snow and the stranger, a big guy, tapped me on the shoulder and scared the crap out of me. I was out of breath and hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings.

"Give me that shovel," he demanded.

I tried to argue with him, but no. "Humor me.  No way I can stand by and watch you do that." He grabbed the shovel--I think he pulled it from my hands--and finished uncovering our walk, the sidewalk in front of the house, and the car. It took a while because there was a lot of snow. When he was done, he handed back the shovel and walked off without another word.

I was nine months pregnant at the time and trying to get that baby out. I felt was a total hormonal mess of resentment and gratitude.

I never saw him again.


Tuesday, August 19, 2014

interviewing

back to promo. And look! You can win prizes.

From the GeminiGirls: 3 days of our favourite M/M Romance authors, with reviews, interviews and of course, giveaways.


Bonnie's interview!


Summer speaks!

Monday, August 18, 2014

echo chamber

I realized today why I don't blog here--nothing to do with the fact that no one comments. I never did this blog for the comments...I usually did it to avoid work or to air my opinions.

I'm tarred of opinions. I'm tarred of comments and people being tarred of things, sick and tarred. Tarred, tarred, tarred. Internet burnout. That includes my own opinions, as it turns out. I keep starting to write things and then stop because hey If I don't care what I think, why would anyone else?

spoiler: no one, except molly the dog who waggles her big ears and stares deep into my eyes every time I say a word. And that's freaky after a while.

My response isn't 11 on the  scale of screamingly negative, more meh... Definitely not HEY NO BLEH. because HEY NO BLEH shows up on the comment thread on any article in any part of the internet and I wish to avoid that.

HEY NO BLEH is a kick or a slap because people are wrong or you think they're wrong or they are mean or they are rude or they are trying to be funny and they're not or they are being too serious when the topic is just funny (lighten up for god's sake) or they are clueless or they are off-topic or they are sexist/racist/ageist.

and the kick or slap response to the stupidity--it turns into part of the endless emotionfest. It turns the convo up to 12 every time.

Goats still rock. They're not a passing thing, not like owls or raccoons.

And my chickens are fine, thank you.  C3 is more than fine. That hero hen lays an egg every single day of the week. I worry about the poor girl. I wish the others would take up the slack. She is the best chicken ever. The other two could use some lessons on having a pleasant personality and on laying eggs.



Tuesday, August 05, 2014

one of those people

you know the ones who only use their blog to do promo?

I didn't want to be one of those people. At the moment I am.
Here's an article I wrote. Go comment. Thank you.  Please, please

I'm feeling slightly desperate about it, of course. Most promo puts me in a fingers trembling, head sweating sort of a mood. It's probably training.

But the fact is so many promotional efforts do not work and they don't work right out in public. Of course the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Q** Public are watching porny fun and not paying attention should made the whole thing less painful, because it's a nice quiet failure.

Somehow that never makes one feel better.


**Stands for Quigley. I'm not sure why or how, but that's what they said.