Childish Series: Izzy and the Neighborhood Pt. 3

Froggy Bottom

It looked like a man, but it moved like a toad.

Izzy flattened herself to the grass outside the Buttons backyard, hoping to see and not be seen. The crouching toady man, as she rightly dubbed him, he was looking up at the stars with big glassy eyes, filled with sadness. She almost asked him “what was the matter?” but then she thought better of revealing her hiding spot.

The toady man reached his impossibly large arm up to the McFinn’s front door, and angrily knocked with a thwop! thwop! thwop! ——-There was silence, and not a so much as a porch light flicked on. Unsatisfied with this response, the toady man began whaling on the door with all his might–so long, that the door began to splinter like a boardwalk.

Being the only witness to this fury made Izzy pee her favorite pair of jeans.  Her soiled pants depleted what little courage she had left, so,  slowly, she began crawling on all fours back to the safety of her yard–hoping to pull the gate closed behind her, but as she pulled, the hinges squeaked their rusty coils.

Childish Series: Izzy and the Neighborhood, Pt 2

New Haven salmon pink house (with aqua steps) by brookewill

Izzy didn’t sleep after her mother tucked her in bed that night, because she got that feeling again, right between her toes, the one that wakes her up and moves her to action. Sometimes the feeling leads her to sleep walking, up and down the hall, but not tonight–tonight she had a mission.

The neighbors next door had a  pool, with a little frog swimming through its chlorine tides that croaked all night long, and Izzy wished to rescue it. The little girl planned to return the small wonder to the lily pond three blocks down the road, and she planned to visit him there every now and again under the moonlight.

With her back pack and a tiny yellow flashlight, she tiptoe out the kitchen sliding door. Izzy pushed a lawn chair up to the gate and unlocked it, there was a squeak as the door swung open. She froze with her tiny flash light in hand, hoping her parents were soundly sleeping…no booming voice told her to come back inside, so she assumed that their was still freedom to be had by her tonight. Making haste to the pool, Izzy noticed a dark figure squatting near the window in front of the house across the street.

Poetry Series: A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

How To Write Historical Fiction

Fickle Fascinations

When it comes to writing a good story there are no definite, concrete ‘RULES YOU MUST OBEY’. If you are a skilled enough writer, you can make even the most hare-brained idea work, convention be damned. Quentin Tarantino’s playfully warped interpretation of World War Two in Inglourious Basterds is a prime example. Yet after assessing the merits and faults of both Spartacus and Vikings, I thought, perhaps brazenly, that it would be interesting to outline some of the common pitfalls of historical fiction.

In this study, we will branch out from television to envelop film in a big, affectionate cuddle (if we like it) or a brutish, rib-cracking bear hug (if we don’t). Without further ado, let us begin.

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“There is a lon…

“There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship’s, smooths and contains the rocker. It’s an inside kind–wrapped tight like skin. Then there is the loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive. On its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one’s own feet going seem to come from a far-off place.”
― Toni Morrison, Beloved

Childish Series: Izzy and the Neighborhood.

House On the Hill - City of Ventura, California by Rockin Robin

House On the Hill – City of Ventura, California by Rockin Robin

“There are somethings that go bump in the night, some of them wriggle and some of them bite.” Click. Her mother had entered the room moments ago, and as quick as a hare she turned off the t.v, and Izzy was left staring at the off black screen.
“That’s enough t.v for tonight little lady, I don’t need you having nightmares.” she said with her bony hand on her hip. Their tiny little neighborhood had gone to bed, and that meant that they should too. They had just moved here, but Izzy quickly noticed that the night had a strange effect on this place and its people–would simply turn off and kind of hide when the sun withdrew. Little Izzy was always curious, and full of restless interest  about everything around her living and dead alike.  Her latest investigation was her new home town, Windswept Renieer, she has been slowly making her way around on her bike. This perturbed her mother. Since Izzy was always poking something, with the scraggly little stick she carried with her in a book-bag.  her mother believed this would lead to misinterpretations by nosy adults. Izzy began by poking it and then taking a picture of whatever sad subject lay beneath her stick, all for her collection, which was more like an anthropological en devour. Her mother prayed that this phase of behavior would pass, but it only grew more bothersome with age…