I Write Like …

This was a thing three years ago, but despite keeping a log of everyone I supposedly wrote like I never made a post about it. Now that it’s making the rounds again, I figured I’d share.

I plugged in fragments of all of my finished stories, including fanfics, as well as four chapters of The Novel and a couple of WIPs. Apparently, I write most like Stephen King (4), David Foster Wallace (4), Chuck Palahniuk (2), Oscar Wilde (2), Margaret Mitchell (2), and William Gibson (2).

Yup.

There’s also some Asimov, Dickens, Anne Rice, Douglas Adams, Rudyard Kipling, Atwood, and Nabokov peppered in there.

I can dig that.

April & May: A Couple of Months in Words

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This list makes me sad. Not because what I did manage to read was bad, but because I’ve had so little time to actually read. Anyway …

April
“Rocket Dragons” by Larry Kincheloe
“The Sandman’s Dreams” by Jess Hyslop
“Past Tense” by James Beamon
“Snake Sister” by Melissa Mead
“Daughter of Mettle” by Aaron DaMommio
“Legerdemain” by Gabriel Murray
Twenty-Four Hours of Fast Fiction by Lee ‘Budgie’ Barnett
“What Merfolk Must Know” by Kat Otis
“Shades of the Father” by M. Adrian Sellers

May
“Puppet Man” by Cate Gardner
“Forgiving Dead” by Jeff Stehman
“Puss” by Melissa Mead
“Swan Song” by Melissa Mead
“A Little Sleep” by Melissa Mead
“The Left Side of Your Lover’s Broken Face” by Brynn MacNab
“Lyam” by Jez Patterson
“The Bargain” by Henry Szabranski
“Jumbo Gumdrop Serenade” by E. Catherine Tobler
“The Troll (A Tale Told Collectively)” by Marissa Lingen
“Persephone at Arm’s Length” by Bridget A. Natale

05272013wires01

Housing Woes

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WTF?

As some of you may know, we’ve been slowly — very slowly — moving into our new place for the past six months. It’s taken a lot of trips, and a lot of money, and there’s still the fence to put up and the porch to close in and the animals to move. This afternoon, we packed a few boxes and headed that way only to find the back door swinging in the breeze and the siding underneath knocked out.

They made off with most of the copper wiring and an auger that’d been sitting on the porch. The back door is so damaged it won’t even close, it’s being held shut with a bag of cement.

The cops were called and a report was made. We doubt we’ll hear back from them anytime soon.

They think it was someone we knew, someone familiar with the house. We think we know who’s responsible, but how does that help us now?

Next step is to see how much our insurance will cover, if they’ll cover anything at all.

We have four weeks. What else can go wrong?

Ugh Sandwich

Took liquid ibuprofen with a fork.

I made a biscuit sandwich with lots of butter (so much that it seeped through to the crust), bacon and cheese. I set it in the cabinet and when I pulled it down to microwave it, webbing and bugs — not spiders exactly, something like large black mantises or ants standing upright — stuck to one side of it. I wiped it off and put it back, not realizing I was placing the plate right in a spider web. I took it down again and the bugs were back and there were twice as many, and a bite had been taken out of it. I was so frustrated I started crying and tossed the plate aside, yelling at Momma about it and behaving as if the whole thing was completely unavoidable.

— April 2, 2012

Old Wife's Tail

Flash Fiction Friday: Old Wife’s Tail

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© Wicked Sushi

Old Wife’s Tail

by Mekenzie Larsen

 

Whiskers tickled his chin. A weight on his chest, no lighter than a bowling ball, shifted languidly from one rib to the other. His wrists bled. His ankles were bruised. His foggy eyes rolled in their sockets till they landed on hers, sharp blue and full of poison.

He whimpered, waiting for the next strike. It didn’t take long. A practiced set of crimson-stained claws flashed across his cheek, his nose, his lips. “Why?” He could hear the others, light feet pacing the room, flooding the stairwell. Some had wandered into the basement in search of smaller prey. “Why do you do this?” He wept, salt burning a trail from his eyes to the hair at his temples. She drew closer, smiling.

“It’s not your breath we want,” she hissed. “It’s your tears.”

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