K R Smith

Monday, April 18, 2016

Day 18 - As Words Careen

Human 76: A post-apocalyptic surprise is coming!

Yes, they are just flying out across the Internet in the general direction of my readers... some of them may actually make sense, but don't count on it. I'm referring to my words, not my readers. Well, in this particular case...

Free-form again, as inspired by my daily commute.

Swamped

I look out the window.
It's early morning as the train passes
The marsh.

Mists, illuminated by the sun
Peeking over distant trees,
Hover above the dark waters.

I wonder how many secrets
Are hidden
Within it's shallow rivulets,

Or, owing to the proximity of civilization,
Empty beer cans
And rusted tricycles.

Still, my imagination
Calls forth cat-o-nine-tails
Red-winged blackbirds,

Frogs croaking,
And minnows swimming
In the shallows.

I hear
One of the other passengers
Say something about a swamp.

True,
An accurate description,
Even though it doesn't sound as nice,

For a marsh
Is just a swamp
Putting on airs.

As that forlorn patch of soggy ground
Disappears behind me,
My thoughts linger there.

On a higher level, of course,
In the marsh
And not the swamp.

K.R. Smith

*I'm trying to write a poem each day for National Poetry Month. It's difficult to come up with original titles (that are interesting) for each post. I chose silly instead.

Here are the links to the poems so far:

   Day 1 National Poetry Month - Kick-off (National Poetry Month)
   Day 2 Haiku, For You (Haiku)
   Day 3 A Poem For Free (The Good Morning Man)
   Day 4 Wait, There's Even More (Monday)
   Day 5 I'm Still Alive (TMI)
   Day 6 I'm Resorting To Tricks (A Walk Through Kipling's Wood)
   Day 7 It Almost Like Poetry Heaven (Metal Monsters)
   Day 8 I've Got A Lot On My Plate (The Ides Of April)
   Day 9 Another Poem Would Be Fine (Storm Spirit)
   Day 10 I'm At It Again (What A Tree Is Not)
   Day 11 Yes, Number Eleven (A U-Turn For The Worse)
   Day 12 I Feel Like One Of Santa's Elves (Avoiding The Plague Like The Plague)
   Day 13 By The Poetry Machine (Sounds Of A Spring Night)
   Day 14 Rhymes With Thirteen (Bluebells)
   Day 15 I'm Just Being Mean (No Poem Today)
   Day 16 And I'm Full Of Beans (Steel Circles)
   Day 17 I'm Getting The Hang Of This Routine (Of All Things)

Sunday, April 17, 2016

Day 17 - I'm Getting The Hang Of This Routine

I really think I am. Getting the routine, I mean. I'll probably have it down pat by day thirty.

Another free-form poem—to counter-balance the title, of course.

Of All Things

Of all the things
That make up a person,
Memories are the hardest for me to understand.

Not how memories saved within my brain
Or how they are recalled,
But which ones seem to come back so easily.

Why is it
That I can remember the exact smell
Of my grandmother's kitchen?

The toast,
The eggs fried in lard,
The blackberry jam she always had on the table

Are as fresh and clear
Today
As they were a half-century ago.

Why are the fragrances of fishing
Along the bay's backwaters
As pungent as it was when I was a child?

The brackish water,
The small white perch,
The breeze from the reed-covered shore

Are still so strong
Today
I can almost will myself backwards in time.

These aromas, and many others
Are locked into my subconscious,
Ready to erupt at the slightest prodding.

Nothing important happened
During those times,
There was no historical event

That occurred,
No milestone
Reached,

Except,
Perhaps,
That I was truly alive.

K.R. Smith

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Day 16 - And I'm Full Of Beans

No, I have no idea what the blog post title is supposed to mean.

But it does rhyme.

Sort of.

And, no, the poem* for today will not be about a musical fruit.

Unless, of course, I get very, very desperate.

Instead, I went a little steampunk.

Steel Circles

The man walked towards the worker.
"The gears must not be allowed to stop," said the supervisor.
"I understand," the workman replied.

"And I believe I have found the problem
As gear set B-28 must be replaced.
It splits the power from gear AJ-183
And reverses the direction
Before splitting it among two other sections."

"Can this be done without stopping the gears?"
"If I can by-pass the power
Via a temporary drive belt
To the other axle."
"Then do so, for the gears must not be allowed to stop."

As the worker unpacked the parts,
He looked up at the huge mass of machinery whirring,
Then, something within him stirring, turned to his supervisor.
"I hope this in not irreverent,
But I have a question, sir."

"I have never been out of this compound
Since I was old enough to work.
I see inputs and outputs and shafts of all sizes,
And pulleys and cogs and the belts that comprise this.
May ask what it is all for?"

There was a long pause,
A very long pause,
Then he stared straight at the workman
His eyes narrow,
His expression burning.

"That is not your concern—that is only for those at the top,
But the gears must not be allowed to stop."
And then he walked away.

K.R. Smith

Friday, April 15, 2016

Day 15 - I'm Just Being Mean

So sorry!

Today's poem* will be—well, it appears I've let you down!

No Poem Today

To all who read
This post today
There is no poem
I'm sad to say.

I really tried,
I really did,
I should do better,
I'm not a kid.

But life is too complex
These days.
My brain is just
A foggy haze

Of going here
And going there
While pulling out
My graying hair.

So, for those who've read my daily posts,
You've all been very kind,
But there is no—wait—

Oh, never mind...

K.R. Smith

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Day 14 - Rhymes With Thirteen

Human 76 - A post-apocalyptic secret is in store for you soon!

That's all I've got for today's title...

Again, today's poem* will be a short one about Virginia Bluebells. It's time for them start blooming.

This image, “Bluebells In The Wood,”
courtesy of Simon Howden
at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Bluebells

Beneath the trees,
Over the hills,
Between the trillium they rise

Pushing stalks
With azure buds
Up towards the sky.

Soon the Earth
Will match the heavens
For a little while

As swaying blooms
Dress the land
In formal floral style.

K.R. Smith

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Day 13 - By The Poetry Machine

Okay, my machine might need a little oil—and a tune-up. But it rhymes, sort of...

Again, today's poem* will be a short one.

Sounds Of A Spring Night

Some say the noise keeps them awake,
But I hear a song
As tiny frogs peep late into the evening
Accompanied by a bird whose call echoes through the wood.

Even the train whistle in the distance
Seems a natural part of the night,
Carrying me slowly away
Towards sleep.

K.R. Smith

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Day 12 - I Feel Like One Of Santa's Elves

Yeah, I had to stretch to make that title rhyme... But it is a bit like I'm on a production line here.

And because of that, today's poem* will be a short one.

Avoiding The Plague Like The Plague

My daily commute on the train takes me far
Though the journey is filled with such dread
As I invariably end up in the hospital car
With the sick, the dying, and (nearly) dead
Waiting for them to end up on the floor.

No matter which railcar I choose for my travels
There is always a passenger sniffling or sneezing,
And once their supply of tissue unravels,
They begin with the gasping and wheezing,
Occasionally doing all four.

I truly expect the conductor to enter
Dressed like the reaper,
With a sickle as scepter,
Scaring to death those few who can sleep here
Waking them up from a snore.

It's playing roulette
To commute with diseases,
So before I catch cold and break out in a sweat
There is much you can do to appease us
And not spread all the germs we abhor.

Just cover your coughs
And stifle your sneezes
It's those little things
That are things that will please us,
Or decide to stay home one day more.

So, heat up some soup
And take a few pills
When you're starting to droop
To help cure your ills
And not be the one we deplore.

K.R. Smith

Monday, April 11, 2016

Day 11 - Yes, Number Eleven

That title rhymes as badly as a title possibly can. It's really sad.

Also, I'd like to note that I've noticed an upsurge in the number of readers in Finland. I don't know why, but hei kaikille lukijoilleni in Suomi! (I think that means hello to all my readers in Finland. If not, I apologize...)

Anyway, it's been rather cold here. Unseasonably so. This has me thinking of summer. I'm getting older and the cold affects me more than it used to. I need warm, even hot, summer days to get me back on track. I'm getting anxious for them.

A U-Turn For The Worse

I close my eyes and face
Another blustery day
Wondering when the winter
Will finally go away.

I walk across the parking lot.
Quickly, I might add.
And once I climb into the train,
I'm glad.

Snuggling up against the vents
For any meager waft of heat,
I wish I'd worn my heavy coat
And boots upon my feet.

Just short of an hour,
I reach my destination.
I'm thrust back into the cold again,
Much to my consternation,

And begin the walk
Up the granite canyons of the city
Where the winds howl
And scream at me without pity.

The sun shines down,
But has little effect.
I wonder if it has
Some sort of defect.

Once inside the office,
I reluctantly undo my coat,
Unwrapping the scarf
From around my throat,

And settling in,
I take a moment to dream
Of large, steaming coffee with a hint of dark mocha
And a shot of whipped cream.

Then just as I lean back into my seat,
Finally taking it all in stride,
The alarms go off and my manager yells,
"It's a fire drill, folks. Everybody outside!"

K.R. Smith

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Day 10 - I'm At It Again

Every day during my commute I watch folks staring into their smartphone, oblivious to any part of the world around them that doesn't appear in that tiny portal. And before everyone thinks I'm a Luddite, I've made my living over these many years writing code for various computer systems from mainframes to PCs. And I, too, own a smartphone. But I've learned there's more to life than the latest gadget and whatever ad-filled prose is dumped at you. ( My writings are an exception, however, and are required material. ) Another thing—you really don't have to document every waking moment of your life with a Tweet or a selfie. Just enjoy it.

What A Tree Is Not

The child pointed to the picture
On the glassy surface of the tablet
and said, "That's a tree!"

I did not wish to interfere
With the time the young mother
was spending with her child.

I said nothing,
Though I wanted so terribly
To correct the little girl.

That is not a tree.
That is an image
Of a tree.

An image of one particular tree,
Too small to tell
Its genus or species.

You cannot feel the bark
To tell if it is rough
Or smooth.

You cannot touch
The lichen growing on it,
The color of copper exposed to salt air.

You cannot smell
The earthy fragrance
Of the leaves that fell the year before.

You cannot see the wind
Cause the leaves to twist and turn
Or tremble before a coming storm.

You cannot see how the roots
Have meandered between the rocks in the soil,
Spreading in search of food and water.

You cannot watch
An insect crawling up the trunk
Only to crawl back down again.

You cannot hear the bird singing
In the top, hidden by leaves,
Or see the color of the eggs in its nest.

It will neither shelter you
From a gentle spring shower
Nor the mid-summer's sun.

It is just an image,
Most likely forgotten
When the next image appears.

There are trees, however,
That have a place in my life,
And in my world.

I will visit them again,
And feel sorrow when they perish,
Returning to the soil.

That is a tree, like the one they sit beneath,
Ignored,
Viewing that insignificant image.

K.R. Smith

Saturday, April 9, 2016

Day 9 - Another Poem Would Be Fine

Time for a darker poem. I due claim to be a writer of horror, given the chance. Hopefully, this will be posted before midnight and thus finished before the day is officially over*.

Storm Spirit

I swear I felt a chill,
A chill I'd felt before.
It was not from the winds of this dark storm
Beating against my door
That stirred this feeling

No, the crackling fire
Is quite enough to warm me.
Yet I feel the cold surround my body,
Penetrating to such a degree
That, at times, I shudder uncontrollably.

And, no, not this storm,
Nor any like it since that night
When Fletcher, a man I knew well,
Disappeared from sight
Beneath a storm-tossed sea.

I swear, I did not believe
That we could find him in such a tempest.
And I, being captain of that ill-dated vessel,
Ordered that we should not test
The small ship's integrity against such a thunderous gale.

I could not risk the other men aboard, could I?
Your understanding is all I ask.
And his, though on such nights as this
I sense his presence approaching, taking me to task
For his gelid demise.

I know he waits for me
In the shadows, cold and wet.
I spy the gloomy adumbration
Of his spirit that I cannot forget
Even when the sun return to my eyes.

I hear him, too,
In each hum and hiss of the wind
That whispers my name in his voice.
If I could live that night again and rescind
That fateful order, I surely would, if only for my own sanity.

And more than once
I considered that a pistol's fiery blast at my head
Might finally silence
The whisperings, the howlings of the dead,
But I am unsure if this is true.

I pull the blanket over me
Sitting in my chair,
Lifting a brandy to my lips
Fending off the icy wetness in my hair,
Dripping from my pores.

No, it is not the sheets of rain,
But my own sweat
That dampens my body with salty water,
The same as he surely felt, and yet
My torment never ends.

Yes, I get a reprieve
With the end of each storm,
Though even as the sun rises
I can close my eyes and envision his form
Slipping under the waves.

And though I can see a faint lightening of the sky
As the night ends,
I cannot rejoice as I am without hope
That I can make meaning amends
Before the next storm—and Fletcher—comes again.

K.R. Smith

Friday, April 8, 2016

Day 8 - I've Got A Lot On My Plate

I've just filed my 2015 income tax. That's the subject for today*. I had to squeeze in filing them between all of the other jobs I have (hence, the title).

It's a free-form poem, as are the tax forms I've filled out. Not only do they not rhyme, they have no reason.

I am referring to both the tax forms and the poem. Believe me, I tried...

The Ides Of April

It's that time again.
Time to make a confession.
The IRS awaits.

It is written that April is the cruelest month
Though I doubt
This is what Mr. Elliot had in mind.

Why does the mere mention
Of auditors stir visions
Of the Grimm Reaper within my brain?

I have this ingrained, genetic fear
Of filling out forms
For review by a stranger,

Or worse yet,
The digital cyborg
That passes a heartless judgment on my sins.

I thought after finishing school
The dread that awakened with every quiz and test
Would disappear.

I was wrong.
Not only does it stalk my very being,
It is so much worse.

Will an errant zero
Haunt my life forever,
Following me to my grave?

Will some obscure rule
Plunge my life
Into despair?

There is darkness at work here.
I press the button and the forms,
As a smallish batch of electrons,

Are transmitted
To some distant office
Sealing my fate.

I am doomed.
There will be no refund
This year.

K.R. Smith

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Day 6 - I'm Resorting To Tricks

I'll do anything to keep these silly titles going.

But another poem* has been finished. Only 24 more to go*. God help me...

A Walk Through Kipling's Wood

Waterfall In Thailand,
courtesy of markuso at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Oak, ash, thorn;
That's where they say the fairies live
Deep within the wood.
Thought I've not seen them here today
I have no doubt they could.

A toadstool sits within the glade
Surrounded by a fairy ring
Near where tiny lilies sprout,
Just the size for elves with wings,
Still glistening with the dew.

Above the pond
The dragonflies
Hover near the lily pads.
Surely naiads wait nearby
Just beyond my view.

What was that child-like laughter
Somewhere beyond the trees?
And could a fairy's wings have caused
That fragrant stirring of the breeze
Tinged with mallow and feverfew?

Oak, ash, thorn;
That's where they say the fairies live
Deep within the wood.
And as I end my walk today
I think that if they don't, they should.

K.R. Smith

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Day 5 - I'm Still Alive

Yes, another poem (with bad blog page title) is here for Day 5 of National Poetry Month.

My parents had a Nash many years ago. Two, in fact, though not both at once. So here is one, in my poem.

TMI

Old Mr. Harper, emptying trash,
Stopped in his driveway, admired his Nash,
And spotting a smudge
On the hard metal dash
Polished it up till it glowed

When a very small boy
With a curious face
Appeared in the chrome
Of his very big toy
And asked him, "How does it go?"

"It's really quite simple,"
He said to the child.
Then the man scratched his head
And fondled his dimple
While thinking out what he would say.

"There's a motor right here under the hood
That burns up some gas
To make all the power
To spin the rear wheels, if everything's good,
Sending you on your way!"

Mr. Harper then waited, his breath nearly bated,
For the boy to respond to his speech.
But he seemed unimpressed,
And, though his ego deflated,
The old man continued right on.

"Perhaps all you need
To bring you to speed
Are a few more brief facts,"
Mr. Harper proceeded
As the wee lad stifled a yawn.

"So when I twist the key
The starter will turn,
Spinning the crank
In the engine, you see,
So the pistons will go and not stop.

Then, before top dead center,
The spark plugs will spark
Igniting the fuel,
Which has already entered
From the carb that's mounted atop.

Now, pointing inside
To a long, black-knobbed lever,
Said, "Then, using this
You may easily slide
The transmission right into gear.

The gears spin a shaft,
By the ratio chosen,
Attached to the wheels
Placed conveniently aft,
Of which, you can see, are here.

With both hands on the wheel,
You take off the brake,
Then press on the gas
With your toe, not your heel,
And away down the road you will go."

With nary the hint of a trace of a smile,
The child looked up at the man,
Then eyeing the car from the front to the back,
And speaking not even a word for a while,
Replied with the question, "So?"

"I'm sorry, dear boy, if I've failed
To explain all of the workings and mechanical quirkings
In a way that you might understand."
He straightened his back, deeply inhaled,
And rested a hand on the Nash by his side.

The tiny young boy heaved a big, heavy sigh,
Shuffled his feet,
Trying hard not to cry
Before giving in and rolling his eyes.
"I just wanted to go for a ride."

"Oh."

K.R. Smith

*I'm trying to write a poem each day for National Poetry Month.

Here are the links to the poems so far:

   Day 1 National Poetry Month - Kick-off
   Day 2 Haiku, For You
   Day 3 A Poem For Free
   Day 4 Wait, There's Even More

Monday, April 4, 2016

Day 4 - Wait, There's Even More

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

Poetry that, is...

I can't help myself when making up silly titles for my blog posts. After all, I'm going to need thirty of these things* and I don't have a lot of spare time to fool with them. Please don't expect greatness and I promise not to disappoint you!

This a poem about Monday because—well, because it's Monday and that's all I could come up with.

This image, Writing on Notepad,
courtesy of David Castillo Dominici at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Monday

It's not a day that many love.
Often blue, or sad,
Or leading to something bad.

You just knew Kristofferson
Would have a Monday frown
After dealing with Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Maybe it's the weekly cycle
Of starting another work-week grind
That brings these feelings to mind.

As I board the train,
"Happy Monday," the conductor sings
As if there is such a thing.

Then, settling in for the long ride ahead,
I close my eyes as we pull away
To sleep, perchance to dream of Friday**.

K.R. Smith

*I'm trying to write a poem each day for National Poetry Month.

Here are the poems so far:

   Day 1 National Poetry Month - Kick-off
   Day 2 Haiku, For You
   Day 3 A Poem For Free

** Yeah, I know. It sounds vaguely familiar to me, too.

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Day 3 - A Poem For Free

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

Yeah, I did it again with the title. Sorry.

This is a free-form poem taken right from the streets of Washington, DC.

Every day I pass a man who sit on the corner of K and 15th streets. He is the unofficial greeter of McPherson Square. For those unfamiliar with DC, that is just a few blocks north of the White House. It can be cold and rainy or pleasant and sunny, but he's there each morning with a smile and a polite, if loud, welcome.

And there he is, sitting by the stop light,

made famous by Google Street View...

The Good Morning Man

He's an early riser for sure,
Already at his spot by the time I get off the subway
From Union Station.

I can hear him two blocks away:
"Good morning! Good morning!"

The greeting pierces the chill air over McPherson Square,
And as the young professionals zoom by on their rented bikes,
He greets every passing pedaler*.

Though mostly indifferent to his efforts, he still calls out:
"Good morning! Good morning, bicycle ri-ders!"

I wave to him and he says "Good morning, sir!"
I smile. He does, too, before continuing his routine
For the next group of sleepy-faced commuters.

Most walk past with their faces buried in a smartphone.
"Good morning! Good morning!"

He never begs for money, or refuses an offer.
Disturbingly happy, perhaps he knows the answer
While the rest of us are still searching for the right question.

As I continue on to work, I hear him behind me and think about that.
"Good morning. It's Fri-day!"

And so it is.
A good morning.
And Friday.

K.R. Smith

* Oddly, the word pedaler is missing from many dictionaries (like Blogger's spell checker), but it is in The Free Dictionary.

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Day 2 - Haiku, For You

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

Technically, I could leave this page blank. The title of this post is a little rhyme in itself!

So, okay! I'm done!

Just kidding.

While yesterday's poem may have set literature back several decades, I thought I'd do something a bit more serious today. In the DC area, it's Cherry Blossom Festival time. Tourists are everywhere. We're also having a Nuclear Summit. If two events could ever go together better than these, I don't know what they'd be.

Just kidding. Again.

Anyway, cherry blossoms (or just blossoms) are key words used in traditional haiku to designate the season of spring. Considering the local festival that's going on right now, a haiku (or two) along that line seemed appropriate.

This image, Sakura Cherry Blossom,
courtesy of phaendin at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

April raindrops wash
Over pale cherry blossoms;
A splash of perfume

Soft petals dropping
Return blossoms to the Earth;
Snowy drifts of white

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

One Hundred Thousand Thanks

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

Sometime in the last couple of days, the number of views of my blog went over the 100,000 mark.

Graph of views for this blog - now over 100,00!

Over 100,000!

I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read my postings whether they arrived here on purpose or by chance. I plan to be a little more active on the blog once work slows down and my current writing project is finished.

I am puzzled a bit, however. Folks in Ukraine really seems to like my blog. I have no idea why.

Breakdown of views by country

But that's okay! Everyone is welcome!

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

All The Things I Need To Catch Up On

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

First, there's Terri Deno's update to the book she's working on. I need to get out to WriteOn and see what she's done. Here's a link to her blog post:

Truths of a Shy Writer: The Next Chapter is Live: For weeks I've been trying to get more chapters up of In Another Life . Yesterday I finally succeeded in getting one new chapter out the...

In Another Life
by Terri Deno

Next, there's Beth Rhode's book, Outside the Lines. She's up for nominations at The Romance Review. I need to get on there and vote for her.

Outside the Lines
by Beth Rhodes

There's also my own story, Where the Money Is, that needs editing so I can submit it again.

Finally, there's all the statistics to compile from Goodreads. I've started, but that's about all. Just too much going on right now!

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

In The Pipeline

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I haven't been posting much here lately, but I have been working on some new stories as time permits.

I've just submitted the second draft of a story to Lisa Shambrook's post-apocalyptic anthology (see spot for cover). I don't know the name of the anthology yet, but I'll pass the details on when I do.

I'm also finishing minor edits to a story (Where the Money Is) I plan to submit to Crimson Streets. It's the sort of tale Mickey Spillane and Edgar Allen Poe might write if they had spent some time together. Certainly not as good as they could produce, of course, but something a little different for me. I had submitted it to one anthology, but it was rejected. That didn't surprise me as the story wasn't the best fit for that particular collection. After a bit of rework, I sent it out to Horrified Press. They had an editor problem with the anthology in question, and the project was cancelled. Third time is the charm!

Until then, you can always check out my fantasy story, The Sword of Hexworthy Manor, in L. C. Mortimer's anthology, Swords of Darkness.

Cover image of Swords of Darkness, edited by L. C. Mortimer

Cover image:
Swords of Darkness

Available for Kindle on Amazon:

US Kindle

UK Kindle

Previous post: Things That Go Bump In the Night

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Things That Go Bump In The Night

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

No, this isn't a post about ghosts and goblins, or anything supernatural. Or even writing about those things. It's a post to say goodbye to someone who has shared my life for nearly twenty-two years.

Bumpers at the Animal ER Hospital

My cat, Bumpers.

I adopted her just after she was born to one of the many stray cats who often visited a friend's house. For whatever reason, they seem to congregate there.

When she was old enough to walk, she would take off running full-throttle towards anything that caught her eye. She wasn't quite as adept at stopping, hence the name.

I didn't think she would be around for as long as she was. Most cats do well to live 15 to 18 years. But Bumpers had a heart murmur that had the vets worried. Surely she could not be expected to live that long. So, over fifteen years ago, she started on medicine to control her blood pressure. Somewhere along the way, we added supplements to help protect her kidneys.

Ten years came and went. Then fifteen. Then twenty.

In December, her check-up showed her kidney values were starting to elevate. We made some adjustments.

A couple of weeks ago, she suddenly stopped eating. That's not a good sign in a cat, and quite unlike Bumpers usual behavior. When I picked her up, I could tell she'd lost weight. It was time for a midnight visit to the emergency animal hospital.

She was there four days to get her stable. I was sent home with a bag of Ringer's Lactate and some very large needles to inject subcutaneous fluid to keep her hydrated. When she didn't respond well, I took Bumpers to her regular vet (I'd already made a follow-up appointment).

They decided to increase the amount of fluids, give an appetite stimulant, and do blood work. It gave her a boost, but it didn't last. Back to the vet we went.

They took her in again to monitor her and give fluids. In spite of their efforts, Bumpers passed away early this morning, peacefully, while sleeping. Many older cats succumb to renal failure, and this was what took Bumpers.

It wasn't unexpected at her age, but the house sure seems empty now.

I still have other cats in my life. There's Elias and Emilee, but even adding their ages together doesn't equal the time I've spent with Bumpers. And there's always Purple, the orange-colored cat of a neighbor. No, I don't know the story behind that name. There are more than enough animals prowling about.

But Bumpers will be missed.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Swords Of Darkness Is Free Today!

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

UPDATE: While the "free for everyone" offer has expired, Swords of Darkness is still free to Kindle Unlimited subscribers!

Do you like free books? Have I got a deal for you!

Swords of Darkness is free today (January 28, 2016) for everybody!

For today only, you can get your fill of stories about swords and the adventures of their owners. And it just so happens that I have a story in this collection called The Sword of Hexworthy Manor. It's about a fourteen-year-old girl named Gwendolyn with a very active imagination. It's her impressive imagination—along with an heirloom sword—that leads her into an interesting, and sometimes humorous, adventure.

Get it today!

Swords of Darkness
edited by L. C. Mortimer

Cover image:
Swords of Darkness

The Book:

A sword holds power.
A sword holds promise.
And a sword holds darkness.

L.C. Mortimer's editorial debut features tales of magic and darkness from authors who explore what it truly means to wield the power of a sword. From a courageous young lad who wants to honor his grandfather to an unlikely hero who will face anything to win the heart of the one he loves, these stories will lead you on adventures you won't be able to forget.

My Story - The Sword of Hexworthy Manor:

Gwendolyn is a young girl living with her grandfather and a housekeeper named Mildred in an old manor near Hexworthy, a village in the moors of Dartmoor. As the last direct descendant of the family, he presents her with a sword, the only family heirloom left of any value. With her imagination in overdrive, she goes to play in the old ruins on the estate and finds, quite by accident, the way to a world she never knew existed. But with passage now sealed, can she ever return home?

Available for Kindle on Amazon:
US Kindle
UK Kindle

Sunday, January 24, 2016

If You Don't Hear From Me For A While

...I'll be shoveling.

Image of snow on my stairway - 2016-01-24 - KRS.

Won't be using the basement steps for a while

Yes, I do believe we had a few flurries...

Image of my back yard from doorway - 2016-01-24 - KRS

Such a pretty scene

By the way, any reader is may use these images for free. I'm not sure why you would, but they could help the authorities locate me when I don't show up after a few days. I'll probably still be outside shoveling, singing while I work to my version of a song Hank Snow* recorded many years ago.

There's a salt-splattered snowplow driving somewhere
On a distant street so many miles away
Only those with lawn chairs get to park there**
Where I wished that I could also live someday...

Looks like it'll take me a while to get a handle on things. Pun intended.

* Hank Snow was Canadian, so he would know about snow. Maybe that's how he got his name. The song is "There's A Star Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere"

**It's a Baltimore thing

Sunday, January 17, 2016

Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On

Just a reminder: It's okay to leave comments!

Yes, I know I haven't posted anything lately. It's been a rough month with too much to do that is mostly out of my control. I probably wouldn't have posted this (even to shamelessly promote the latest book, Swords of Darkness, in which I have a story, The Sword of Hexworthy Manor) if an unusual event hadn't spurred me to do so.

It seems there has been an earthquake in my end of the country and I'm not particularly pleased about that.

Map with location of magnitude 3.0 earthquake on January 17, 2016

Location of 3.0 magnitude earthquake
January 17, 2016
Source: US Geological Survey

I know what you're thinking. This is supposed to be a blog concerning my writing. What could possibly be important enough about a (relatively) minor earthquake that would merit a blog post and how could this real event have anything to do with fiction? I shall explain.

As stated previously, it's on my side of the country. These sort of disturbances should be kept at least three states to the west unless it is an absolute necessity.
I once lived just a few miles south of this location, and I've hiked all around the area, so it is an area I am both familiar with and have fond memories of.
It's dreadfully near the location of a graveyard described in a story I've written.

See, this post is about writing after all.

The story is called Neersville. Neersville is a real place, although not much of a place. Not too far from "town" is a small church graveyard which holds the remains of a renegade Confederate soldier named John Mobberly. He wasn't particularly a pleasant sort of fellow, although the young ladies of the area (at that time) thought he was the bee's knees

The point being, having visited the cemetery in question, I can vouch that a certain uneasiness exists whenever I'm there. Even driving by can make a shiver go up my back. In my story, John decides he doesn't like people disturbing his peaceful rest and makes life difficult for a photographer one autumn night.

That's fiction, of course. I've never actually seen a dark horseman awaken from that eldritch burial ground.

Still, I don't want to take any chances with all this shaking going on nearby. Enough with the earthquakes. There's no need to push our luck, is there?

Monday, April 18, 2016

Sunday, April 17, 2016

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Friday, April 15, 2016

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Monday, April 11, 2016

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Saturday, April 9, 2016

Friday, April 8, 2016

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Monday, April 4, 2016

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Sunday, January 24, 2016

Sunday, January 17, 2016

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