Weekend Writing Warriors: Odd Duck (And . . . ?)

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Last week’s question—again posed by Kyle, who has a lot of ‘em this chapter—was what Tom was going to be doing while she was busy using police resources to dump a half-dead wannabe werewolf assassin on the front porch of the Alpha of the city pack.

Hmmm . . .


I rubbed the back of my neck. “Figure out what the hell’s going on and fix it.”


“And keep you in the loop.”

She folded her arms. “And?”

“And make sure nothing goes FUBAR on your watch.”

“He can be taught,” she told the ceiling, as if the miracle surprised her.


Originally, there were a couple sentences about three lines down about Kyle’s job and Tom’s thoughts on the difficulties of controlling a population that wasn’t supposed to exist.

I’m not sure if I removed them because I couldn’t figure out how to wedge ‘em in there without subverting the true purpose of every punctuation mark I know until the whole thing looked like a clump of semantic oatmeal . . .  or because they don’t belong there in the first place.

Hmmm . . .

I’ve been listening to Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett in audiobook form lately, to get the feel for the tone I want to set.  Chandler had a fantastic way of describing things in one or two brilliant, poetic throwaway sentences. Hammett had a gift for description, too . . . but he was obviously paid by the word.

Hmmm . . .

Random Thursday: Random Edibles*

It’s Random!  It’s Thursday!  It’s Random Thursday!

This is a bit shorter than usual, because I still haven’t caught up on the sleep I gladly lost Tuesday night (and a bit of Wednesday morning) doing this

The general theme is probably due to the glucose tolerance test I had yesterday, which ensured that I didn’t eat anything before I visited the doctor’s office (because I had to fast) or for a eight hours afterwards (because the taste of flat orange Fresca mixed with corn syrup is less tolerable to my tastebuds than the actual glucose is to my system—bluuuuurgh). “cause when I skip a meal or two, my focus narrows.

And yes, I already had a HobNob tag.  Why is this a question?


Reason #683 why my friend Dee is Awesome

When she arrives at the weirdly cool restaurant she suggested for dinner before the amazing concert she made arrangements for us to see, she brings me these:


Hey, Dee:


Twenty-Nine Seconds of Cake

 Is this awesome . . . or am I just projecting?




 You know what makes this even better?

It was created by a place called Tattooed Bakers.

Tattooed Bakers Logo

Go check out their gallery, which ranges from elegant and whimsical to . . . um.


Dancing Cookie Cake

 Julia M. Usher, whose website gives Martha Stewart a run for her money,
created this for the 2013 Oklahoma State Sugar Art Show,
which is now on my list of Dangerous Places I Must Visit.


*Get your head out of the gutter, Kevin; this ain’t that kind of show.  Anda  limerick about HobNobs is too easy for you.  Do one on barszcz and we’ll talk.

Don’t wait up

Way back in April, my friend Dee—who comments here sometimes and with whom I’ve bonded over librarianship, Leverage, husbands, muffins, and music—dropped me an e-mail:

Just FYI, I just found out the Piano Guys are going to be at the Civic Center in Des Moines in October.

Des Moines is within reasonable driving distance from our place—or reasonable for a chance to see this group live and meet Dee face-to-face, anyway—so I immediately replied that we totally needed to go.

And we are.

The tickets arrived in May and I’ve kept them safe ever since—so safe, I thought I’d lost them once or twice.*

But I’m looking at those two lovely pasteboard rectangles right now and soon my husband and I are going to hop in the car and escort them west, where we will trade them in for a night of good company and excellent music, and finally return home to grab a couple hours sleep until it’s time to wake the girls for school.

My husband arranged to have Sunny’s godmother pick them up after school and take them home, where they WILL be doing their homework and minding their grandmother, JANE—and you aren’t supposed to be on the computer, log off right now and finish your math or you’re toast—and tucking themselves in ON TIME, SUNNY—and I hope you’ve done your spelling module?

They’re both a bit befuddled that their parents are escaping running away going on an adventure in the middle(ish) of a school week—and frankly, so am I—but they’re stoked about being allowed to sleep  in my MIL’s guest room as a special treat, so it should work out all right.

Regardless, it won’t be my problem until tomorrow morning.

See you then.


*Though not as safe as I kept the check I wrote to Dee the day after but didn’t actually mail until June.  Letters can be so unreasonable about mailing themselves, even when you go out of your way to find stamps to put on them.

Weekend writing Warriors: Odd Duck (Ring the Bell and Run)

We WriWa bannerHave a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?

Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!

Rules are here!

List of participants is here!


Last week’s question, posed by Sergeant Kyle of the Talbot City Police Department, was how one should properly dispose of the slightly squashed werewolf sent to murder you in your office, because your brother has apparently stolen the sunshine of someone who can hold a grudge.

Tom has a simple answer.

But it does involve Lowell Rhombeck, Big Dog of the Talbot City pack, CEO of Nubilus Enterprises, and all around powerful, well-connected guy . . . who has a complicated history with Tom’s (allegedly) sunshine-stealing brother.


“Lock him in the drunk tank and call Rhombeck,” I said, “or better yet, leave him on Rhombeck’s doorstep with a note.”

“The TCPD isn’t your delivery service,” she said. “And dumping half-dead assassins on the front porch of the mayor’s new bestie doesn’t seem like the smart way to keep collecting my pathetic excuse for a paycheck.”

“Better than live ones.  Seriously, Kyle, you’ll be doing him a favor: if that guy’s one of his, Rhombeck needs to know  his wolves are hiring out as killers.  If he isn’t, Rhombeck needs to know someone’s invading his territory. Either way, you’re just doing your job.”

She gave me one of her looks—the ones Turner claims she saves just for me. “And what will you be doing, while I’m just doing my job?”


Only one answer per Sunday, sorry.




Image of doorbell taken by takomabibelot,located through Wikimedia Commons, and shared here via a Creative Commons license.

Random Thursday: Matters of Taste

 It’s random.  It’s Thursday.  It’s Random Thursday!

I’m blaming the blood moon.

What’s your excuse?


I have one question . . .


But I’m afraid to ask it.



A house was recently put up for sale in Middlesex.

This wouldn’t be particularly interesting, if it weren’t for the seller’s favorite color.

They really like purple.

Purple Living Room




Purple Bath

There’s nothing wrong with this, of course.

Color obsession isn’t a moral failing, and at least the shades aren’t fighting each other.*

I do have to wonder, though, looking at the rest of the house,
whether this is actually a case of one ex-spouse saying,
“Yes, fine, I’ll pay for the staging of the house, but I get 75% of the profit after the sale.”

And the other spouse just smiling in agreement,
while pictures of purple sugarplums and “Price Reduced” signs
dance in his or her head.



Until I see these guys in concert!

I can’t wait, Dee!



  No, Mr. Bond . . . .

Skull chair

I expect you to SIT.

Yes, I know this chair is more Blofeld’s style than Goldfinger’s
but I couldn’t bring myself to think about allowing
a long-haired white cat
in the same room with that upholstery.

 Talk about a view to a kill . . .


Khövsgö Lake

Youri DeFrance (aka Youri Blow) is a musician and song writer who plays a variety of instruments.

Including all parts of his voice box.

Remarquablement . . . convaincant, non?


*I confess that I’m just a tad little disturbed by the shag rug bathtub . . .  And the leather bowl chair next to it.  I’m not judging . . . but I’m thinking.