In keeping with the Halloween spirit... enjoy!
The Whisper
I closed my eyes, then opened them quickly but was unable to discern a noticeable difference in the window. The tiny bit of light coming through the edges traced the outline of the blinds, but not much more. Personally at this very moment I wished I had chosen drapes made of chiffon. For that matter no blinds at all would been preferable to this inky blackness.
I heard the whisper again. "Susaaan" it said so softly I guessed at my own sanity. My ears strained and my eyes darted to and fro trying to decide if I was imagining this or not. For the past five nights it had been the same and tonight did not appear to be any different. I pushed the supposed relevance of the number 6 to the background of my mind and tried to ignore it. "Susaaan" the voice whispered again, tickling my ears as I buried my face deep in the pillows and pulled the covers over my head. My childhood collection of porcelain dolls were safe on their collective self and though their eyes had no trouble filtering through this darkness they sat silently, staring on. If they saw, they were not telling.
[i]"This is silly." [/i] I thought to myself, but nonetheless waited for a few moments before creeping out from under the heavy comforter, hoping beyond hope that I was just imagining this and nothing more. Deep in my heart however, I feared this was something far more sinister. Parapsychology seemed like such a good idea for college but the last thing I wanted to think about right now was ghosts. Mocking me, images seemed to float around my room on the barest traces of light, just out of my line of vision so that if I moved my eyes to intercept them they disappeared, like so much smoke.
I could hear the trees outside the house, scraping branches against the outside of the window with the wind like skeletal bones on the bars of a cage, pushing to get out. Or perhaps, pushing to get in. The old fashioned alarm clock sat next to the bed kept up it's silent march, it's face glowing dully in the darkness, weak against the onslaught of black. It's light reflected in the glass of the dolls eyes as they kept their thoughts to themselves, maintaining their quiet vigil.
"Susaaan" the voice whispered again and with this I leapt from my bed. "That's it! I've had enough!" I shouted. "Who are you and what do you want with me?" I asked, my voice going lower with each syllable and I began to tremble as I realized how complete the darkness of the room was. Cracking my shin on the nightstand, I yelped as I knocked the clock and it's watery light on the floor, and then kicked it under the bed as I hopped around holding my damaged pride. Stepping to what I believed was the direction of the window, I tore the blinds from their rod and stood looking out into the dark at the skeletal face peering back at me. The branches of the old tree intertwined until they formed a the shape of a jaw that mocked me with it's simplicity. Now as I stood at the window I heard the music, though faint from the neighbors back yard, a popular rock song with an emphasis apparently on a girl whose name I shared.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped back from the window and shook my head at my own foolishness. For five entire nights now I'd lain awake, scared and worried at something as silly as a neighbors obsession with a singular song played over, and over again. Reaching for the clock to rescue it from it's fall, I set it on the bedside table. Then turning to the dolls I decided tomorrow might be a good time to get rid of them once and for all. They were really beginning to creep me out.
Crawling back into bed, I dove under the covers and pulled them up under my chin. I fluffed my pillow and looked once more at the dolls with a silent promise of their upcoming demise. With my mind at peace finally, drifted off to catch up with the sleep I'd missed the last several nights.
Had I stayed awake a bit longer I would have heard a change in the whisper, which were not the lyrics I believed to be my tormentor. "Susaaaan.... we are coming for you." Perhaps I would have noticed the wind blowing the curtains on a window that was not open a few seconds prior. Maybe I would have seen the reflection of something else cutting through the darkness, reflected as the dolls watched the glowing eyes creeping closer to the bed. It is even possible I would have felt the fetid breath as it caressed my cheek. It is not without reason that had I not been so exhausted, I could have escaped before I woke screaming as the ragged nails dug in my side, dragging me from the bed towards a portal of hell.
Through all of this, the dolls watched on.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Recipes and fashion sense!
Ok, let me preface this by saying I've never considered myself a writer of horror stories. I can think up some pretty twisted stuff, but short stories themselves usually elude me so this was a sure test of will to get this together. It really made me stretch and think, and it's not been reviewed by anyone but me so if there are some editing errors it's because I'm half blind and without coffee at this point.
In any case, I hope you enjoy. I also hope you watch carefully next time someone is cooking something special for you. ;)
A Supper Dish
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
.
Samantha brushed a brunette lock away from her face as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. The mixture bubbled happily, and she hoped she’d added enough spice this time. The TV was playing an old black and white romance in the background and the muted sounds of storyline, mixed perfectly with the roaring fireplace and the smell of supper cooking. She tasted the sauce careful not to burn her lips and added another pinch of oregano just to be sure. The sauce was her grandmother’s own recipe and she wanted it to be perfect for her husband.
Tom worked hard at the local mill but had a problem with drinking after work. She knew he was handsome and had the ladies attention and though she loved her husband, she resented the lonely nights at home when he was with his friends and far away from her. Lately those nights seemed to be more often than not and her protests that he needed to be home more fell on deaf ears. He would laugh and make some rude joke about her being an old maid stuck all alone with the wind at night. Samantha bristled at the memory of how Tammy Sue Jones had ogled him in the local department store while standing at the perfume counter. That was the last time he had grudgingly taken Samantha to town and she tried to ignore the fact that Tom had given Tammy the once over as well when he thought she wasn’t looking. Samantha made a mental note to ask him about her; perhaps after supper. He should be on his way home by now, as the time had come and passed for his usual drinking spree with his buddies before staggering home. She smiled as she straightened the table cloth and set her grandmother’s china on the worn kitchen table. She had planned a special night together and she hoped he wasn’t too tired from the previous day’s activities.
Samantha had been raised in this house and called it home since her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seven. Her grandfather had died some time earlier, in this very kitchen coincidentally, and Grandmother Elsa spoke of him little except to say that he was very handsome and a favorite with the ladies. She would tell the story of his death with a strange smile tugging at her mouth, and as odd as this would seem to many, Samantha would listen enraptured as the details came forth.
Grandmother Elsa’s signature look was a long black dress with the high neck and long sleeves, out of date for the times, and she always wore a cameo brooch at the throat given to her by her own grandmother. She was a familiar fixture wherever a man had gone astray whether it was domestic abuse or plain old cheating on his wife, or for that matter a wife that had started running around on her husband, leaving her children at home alone. Grandmother Elsa was always there to lend a hand to the family and show support. She would arrive with her grey hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck as Samantha helped her carry a covered dish supper to the offending family member, always a big platter of her famous spaghetti. Strangely enough whatever trouble was brewing always disappeared once Grandmother Elsa had paid a visit. It was from this that Samantha learned that good cooking can solve most problems in life. She studied diligently and spent many hours with her grandmother in the kitchen. “One day Samantha, perhaps you will need to cook for your husband. Make sure you listen and watch the ingredients I use.” She remembered her grandmother preaching more than once, she only hoped now she would be up to Grandmother Elsa’s standards. She felt pretty confident about this particular supper and lifted the lid once more to check on the sauce.
Samantha turned her head slightly as she heard Tom’s car pull in the driveway and turning the fire down on the stove, she allowed the sauce to simmer slowly until it was time to serve. “Hi Honey! I’m home!” Tom said loudly from the front foyer as the door swung shut behind him. He walked into the kitchen where she was slowly stirring the sauce, stopping to lean against the doorframe for a moment as his bleary eyes took in his wife at the stove. Then, wrapping his arms around her he pressed his lips to her neck. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and clothes as he squeezed her tight, and even though she was repulsed, her only reaction was to continue to slowly stir the pot. “What? No love for your good looking man?” Tom said and laughed as he belched loudly in her ear.
“Of course dear” Samantha said as she turned and allowed him to lean onto her. “Anything for my husband.” Along with the alcohol was another, more familiar scent. A woman’s perfume perhaps and possibly sold at a local department store. She stored this information away as most women do, making a mental note to purchase some for herself at some point. “Sit down now and have some supper before it gets cold.” Samantha was careful not to give away her grandmothers final, last secret ingredient for the special sauce she was making, as she dropped a healthy measure of it into the mixture.
Tom staggered over to the chair and flopped down, taking in the nicely set table and roaring fire in the fireplace. “So what’s the special occasion?” He asked as he took in his wife’s dress while she handed him a plate of spaghetti and laid a napkin in his lap. He shoved a huge bite of into his mouth and said with a sneer “And what’s up with that dress?” as spaghetti sauce ran down his stubbled chin and onto his shirt.
Samantha tugged down the black skirt and admired her long sleeves as she sunk the 8” butcher knife between his shoulder blades, burying it to the hilt and leaving it protruding from his back as she turned back to the stove to begin cleanup on the supper she had worked so hard to prepare. “You mean this old thing? It’s just something my Grandmother Elsa left me.” She reached up to lovingly straighten the cameo brooch on the dress’s high neck. She heard him sputter and choke, gasping his final breath as his body slid from the chair into the floor and laid there, wracked with spasms. The last words Tom would hear before the world went black, cold and still was his wife saying in a soft voice, “She had as good a taste in clothes as she did recipes you know.” A log popped in the fire as the credits for the movie rolled across the television screen.
Taking her first taste of the sauce, she let the spices roll around her mouth as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the full flavor, then she filled a large bowl and set aside in the refrigerator. She contemplated what to bring with it tomorrow when she went to visit Tammy and ask her what kind of perfume she could recommend.
In any case, I hope you enjoy. I also hope you watch carefully next time someone is cooking something special for you. ;)
A Supper Dish
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
.
Samantha brushed a brunette lock away from her face as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. The mixture bubbled happily, and she hoped she’d added enough spice this time. The TV was playing an old black and white romance in the background and the muted sounds of storyline, mixed perfectly with the roaring fireplace and the smell of supper cooking. She tasted the sauce careful not to burn her lips and added another pinch of oregano just to be sure. The sauce was her grandmother’s own recipe and she wanted it to be perfect for her husband.
Tom worked hard at the local mill but had a problem with drinking after work. She knew he was handsome and had the ladies attention and though she loved her husband, she resented the lonely nights at home when he was with his friends and far away from her. Lately those nights seemed to be more often than not and her protests that he needed to be home more fell on deaf ears. He would laugh and make some rude joke about her being an old maid stuck all alone with the wind at night. Samantha bristled at the memory of how Tammy Sue Jones had ogled him in the local department store while standing at the perfume counter. That was the last time he had grudgingly taken Samantha to town and she tried to ignore the fact that Tom had given Tammy the once over as well when he thought she wasn’t looking. Samantha made a mental note to ask him about her; perhaps after supper. He should be on his way home by now, as the time had come and passed for his usual drinking spree with his buddies before staggering home. She smiled as she straightened the table cloth and set her grandmother’s china on the worn kitchen table. She had planned a special night together and she hoped he wasn’t too tired from the previous day’s activities.
Samantha had been raised in this house and called it home since her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seven. Her grandfather had died some time earlier, in this very kitchen coincidentally, and Grandmother Elsa spoke of him little except to say that he was very handsome and a favorite with the ladies. She would tell the story of his death with a strange smile tugging at her mouth, and as odd as this would seem to many, Samantha would listen enraptured as the details came forth.
Grandmother Elsa’s signature look was a long black dress with the high neck and long sleeves, out of date for the times, and she always wore a cameo brooch at the throat given to her by her own grandmother. She was a familiar fixture wherever a man had gone astray whether it was domestic abuse or plain old cheating on his wife, or for that matter a wife that had started running around on her husband, leaving her children at home alone. Grandmother Elsa was always there to lend a hand to the family and show support. She would arrive with her grey hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck as Samantha helped her carry a covered dish supper to the offending family member, always a big platter of her famous spaghetti. Strangely enough whatever trouble was brewing always disappeared once Grandmother Elsa had paid a visit. It was from this that Samantha learned that good cooking can solve most problems in life. She studied diligently and spent many hours with her grandmother in the kitchen. “One day Samantha, perhaps you will need to cook for your husband. Make sure you listen and watch the ingredients I use.” She remembered her grandmother preaching more than once, she only hoped now she would be up to Grandmother Elsa’s standards. She felt pretty confident about this particular supper and lifted the lid once more to check on the sauce.
Samantha turned her head slightly as she heard Tom’s car pull in the driveway and turning the fire down on the stove, she allowed the sauce to simmer slowly until it was time to serve. “Hi Honey! I’m home!” Tom said loudly from the front foyer as the door swung shut behind him. He walked into the kitchen where she was slowly stirring the sauce, stopping to lean against the doorframe for a moment as his bleary eyes took in his wife at the stove. Then, wrapping his arms around her he pressed his lips to her neck. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and clothes as he squeezed her tight, and even though she was repulsed, her only reaction was to continue to slowly stir the pot. “What? No love for your good looking man?” Tom said and laughed as he belched loudly in her ear.
“Of course dear” Samantha said as she turned and allowed him to lean onto her. “Anything for my husband.” Along with the alcohol was another, more familiar scent. A woman’s perfume perhaps and possibly sold at a local department store. She stored this information away as most women do, making a mental note to purchase some for herself at some point. “Sit down now and have some supper before it gets cold.” Samantha was careful not to give away her grandmothers final, last secret ingredient for the special sauce she was making, as she dropped a healthy measure of it into the mixture.
Tom staggered over to the chair and flopped down, taking in the nicely set table and roaring fire in the fireplace. “So what’s the special occasion?” He asked as he took in his wife’s dress while she handed him a plate of spaghetti and laid a napkin in his lap. He shoved a huge bite of into his mouth and said with a sneer “And what’s up with that dress?” as spaghetti sauce ran down his stubbled chin and onto his shirt.
Samantha tugged down the black skirt and admired her long sleeves as she sunk the 8” butcher knife between his shoulder blades, burying it to the hilt and leaving it protruding from his back as she turned back to the stove to begin cleanup on the supper she had worked so hard to prepare. “You mean this old thing? It’s just something my Grandmother Elsa left me.” She reached up to lovingly straighten the cameo brooch on the dress’s high neck. She heard him sputter and choke, gasping his final breath as his body slid from the chair into the floor and laid there, wracked with spasms. The last words Tom would hear before the world went black, cold and still was his wife saying in a soft voice, “She had as good a taste in clothes as she did recipes you know.” A log popped in the fire as the credits for the movie rolled across the television screen.
Taking her first taste of the sauce, she let the spices roll around her mouth as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the full flavor, then she filled a large bowl and set aside in the refrigerator. She contemplated what to bring with it tomorrow when she went to visit Tammy and ask her what kind of perfume she could recommend.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Goblins and Ghosts and Spooks and Monsters.. oh my!!
In the spirit of the upcoming Halloween night and now fully immersed in the Halloween season, my wish is to leave you each day with some kind of short, spooky story. Hopefully these will leave you quaking in your shoes, chilling to the bones, cowering in the couch and refusing to go to the bathroom down the hall without turning on every light in the house. For the first one I'm going to leave you with one written some time ago as an exercise from a period before vampires were sparkly and attended high school. It turned out quite well I believe and may develop into something more some day, right now it's comfortable being flash fiction, a short story unto itself without a beginning or real ending. In any case, I hope you enjoy and if your light bill doubles in the next week, don't blame me!
Dark Gift
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
Through night’s velvet cover I rise from my centuries sleep; taunted by the thought of the bloodlust I know will come with the darkness. The lust I know will pull me inexorably along like the tide with the moon. The city’s heartbeat throbs as I search. The dark alleys and small alcoves hold the lost souls; the forgotten ones, the ones that will not be missed. There is no challenge in this hunt. They offer no resistance as my face reflects in their eyes and they realize I alone am timeless. Tonight I am challenged to find the one. Tonight I seek a mate that will abide with me, sustain me into the next millennium until it is time to search again.
The night hides my shadows as I find the one I seek. Standing alone from the rest he also watches the city, his dark eyes taking in the ebb and flow of humanity as it goes about its nightly duties. Sensing my presence he turns and with my eyes and unspoken promises, I whisper my invitation. He is mortal, but that is a temporary inconvenience.
The desire burns in his eyes as he takes in the form of the woman before him; the form of a woman who was transformed during the time of the Pharaohs and a shape that hints of earthly pleasures. A smile crests and breaks like the sunrise, blinding me with its radiance and I am stunned…but only for a moment. Clasping his hand in mine I move close and the bloodlust engulfs me.
For this very brief second in time I am as close to human as I have been in 5,000 years. Not since I lay to rest a millennium ago, abhorred at my thirst and disgusted at the carnage that laid in its wake. I am haunted no longer as I accept who I am, what I am. I take his face in my hands kiss him softly as the dark gift urges. The kiss is a taste of immortality and his body responds with shock at the visions it brings to his consciousness; images of elegance and ultimately, images of death.
Holding his eyes with mine I slowly unzip the leather jacket that he wears, baring the soft skin at the base of his throat. Mentally he is already mine, this fair haired child of the sun, and he bends lower to feel my teeth on his neck. I can feel his breath quicken I drink that first deep draught and the life blood flows across my lips but not too much, only enough to open the portals of hell for his entrance; the portals of my own personal hell which I have survived alone these many thousands of years alone, but no longer.
Steadying him with my arm I lick the blood from my lips and in return for his soul, offer my flesh to him. He drinks deeply as his eyes are filled with the soulless look of the dark gift. It is done and I am no longer alone.
As the sun begins to crest the horizon, waking the humans from rest and setting them about their daily lives we sleep entombed in the city that is a hunting ground for any like us. We are the predators, we are the lords, we are the timeless ones and as I fold my arms around him, we sleep the sleep of the dark gift.
Dark Gift
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
Through night’s velvet cover I rise from my centuries sleep; taunted by the thought of the bloodlust I know will come with the darkness. The lust I know will pull me inexorably along like the tide with the moon. The city’s heartbeat throbs as I search. The dark alleys and small alcoves hold the lost souls; the forgotten ones, the ones that will not be missed. There is no challenge in this hunt. They offer no resistance as my face reflects in their eyes and they realize I alone am timeless. Tonight I am challenged to find the one. Tonight I seek a mate that will abide with me, sustain me into the next millennium until it is time to search again.
The night hides my shadows as I find the one I seek. Standing alone from the rest he also watches the city, his dark eyes taking in the ebb and flow of humanity as it goes about its nightly duties. Sensing my presence he turns and with my eyes and unspoken promises, I whisper my invitation. He is mortal, but that is a temporary inconvenience.
The desire burns in his eyes as he takes in the form of the woman before him; the form of a woman who was transformed during the time of the Pharaohs and a shape that hints of earthly pleasures. A smile crests and breaks like the sunrise, blinding me with its radiance and I am stunned…but only for a moment. Clasping his hand in mine I move close and the bloodlust engulfs me.
For this very brief second in time I am as close to human as I have been in 5,000 years. Not since I lay to rest a millennium ago, abhorred at my thirst and disgusted at the carnage that laid in its wake. I am haunted no longer as I accept who I am, what I am. I take his face in my hands kiss him softly as the dark gift urges. The kiss is a taste of immortality and his body responds with shock at the visions it brings to his consciousness; images of elegance and ultimately, images of death.
Holding his eyes with mine I slowly unzip the leather jacket that he wears, baring the soft skin at the base of his throat. Mentally he is already mine, this fair haired child of the sun, and he bends lower to feel my teeth on his neck. I can feel his breath quicken I drink that first deep draught and the life blood flows across my lips but not too much, only enough to open the portals of hell for his entrance; the portals of my own personal hell which I have survived alone these many thousands of years alone, but no longer.
Steadying him with my arm I lick the blood from my lips and in return for his soul, offer my flesh to him. He drinks deeply as his eyes are filled with the soulless look of the dark gift. It is done and I am no longer alone.
As the sun begins to crest the horizon, waking the humans from rest and setting them about their daily lives we sleep entombed in the city that is a hunting ground for any like us. We are the predators, we are the lords, we are the timeless ones and as I fold my arms around him, we sleep the sleep of the dark gift.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Pseudologia Fantastica
Big words for a simple problem, that being habitual or complusive lying.. ie pathological lying about a situation or condition. Also termed "mythomania" which I also considered for the title, but decided the longer one that sounded like a bad science fiction acid trip worked better. I think I'm going to save it for my repetoire of words and throw it out there along with "infinitestical" as often as I can.
Infinitestical? Oh yes, but that's for another post.
So lets have a look at this, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pathological_liar . Wikipedia defines the characteristics of this type of behavior:
The defining characteristics of pseudologia fantastica are that, first, the stories told are not entirely improbable and often have some element of truth. They are not manifestations of delusion or some wider form of psychosis. Upon confrontation, the teller can admit them to be untree, even if unwillingly.
In other words, they build a story around a small kernel of fact. The problem with this is that eventually they lie to so many people they are unable to keep the story straight and then the truth begins to pour out.
What makes people do this? I'm sure many of you reading this has known someone that can't tell the truth if their life depended on it, and sometimes it does. Hopefully you purged people like this from your life when this nasty little habit was thrown out into the open, but for those of you that have someone in your life that is a pathological liar and no way to just make them go away, just let me say I feel for you.
I can honestly say that in all my life I've know... four? Way back in school there was a kid that lived in a rather impoverished area of our very, very small town. He was well known for telling "stories". They weren't the kind of lies that would hurt anyone, they just served to make him look silly as he was found out everytime. The second one was a dear friend of mine, who did this and I knew it, but I learned to just glean through the commentary to pick out the truth. Hers was done to make herself look (and probably feel) important as she had some real problems going on in her life. The third one is about the same, a life being so downtrodden and sad as to warrant pity and compassion, but no strength or motivation to rise above it. He is also quite easy to read and it's pretty obvious when he's telling the truth or lying.
The fourth person I've known that has this, well I can't really call it anything but a disease as pathology itself is a study of diseases, does it willingly and knowingly and only to improve their life and station in life. They will create stories which have some basis in fact, but are mostly all fiction and drama. In a different regard from the 3 people mentioned above, this one has no compunctions as to doing this, knows full well they are doing it and just flat doesn't care. The wake they leave behind them as this carries on can be quite devastating emotionally for the friends who stand behind them, only to find out they were horribly in the wrong all along. For this type of person I can only hope that eventually they will develop some compassion and empathy for others. At some point they are going to meet up with someone who quite simply, will set them in their place and if they are lucky, they won't be hurt physically in the process. The biggest problem with this type of person is that you just never know when to believe them, and when they are lying to your face. They honestly believe the fabrication they have thrown out there, but if pinned to the wall they will admit the untruth. It's pinning them to the wall that gets tricky because they jump from one person to the next, repeatedly looking for someone new to coerce or convince something other than what is really going on. By the time the trait is learned, the damage is done and they have moved on to the next innocent victim.
I'm not a scientist, but even the scientific world can't agree on exactly what causes this phenomenon. Personally I have to ask myself, is it self image? Is it and overpowering need to be something that they are not and the inability, or unwillingness to go through the proper steps to attain the pinnacle they would like to have everyone believe they reside? Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? Is it hormonal? Genetic? I've never been one to argue nature or nurture as I feel both impact our world, but like the lifetime criminals that argue they are the way they are due to their parents, it simply doesn't fly once they are out on their own and still committing the acts as they are then completely under their own control and guidance. There does come a point in your life when the situations you find yourself in are all yours and nobody elses.
If you take nothing else from this reading, know for a certainty that you, and you alone create your environment. We all set the attitude of our daily lives and if you manage to maintain a calm, then you have reached a level I've not yet attained definitely, but one I strive for. Sometimes this means cutting the nasties from my life and concentrating on the positives. (I'm getting very good at biting my fingers though!) However, if you are in a constant environment of stress and turmoil then perhaps you should look inward to find the common source, ask yourself honestly what you can do to change your position in life, and for once in your life, be honest with yourself as hard as the realization may be.
Infinitestical? Oh yes, but that's for another post.
So lets have a look at this, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pathological_liar . Wikipedia defines the characteristics of this type of behavior:
The defining characteristics of pseudologia fantastica are that, first, the stories told are not entirely improbable and often have some element of truth. They are not manifestations of delusion or some wider form of psychosis. Upon confrontation, the teller can admit them to be untree, even if unwillingly.
In other words, they build a story around a small kernel of fact. The problem with this is that eventually they lie to so many people they are unable to keep the story straight and then the truth begins to pour out.
What makes people do this? I'm sure many of you reading this has known someone that can't tell the truth if their life depended on it, and sometimes it does. Hopefully you purged people like this from your life when this nasty little habit was thrown out into the open, but for those of you that have someone in your life that is a pathological liar and no way to just make them go away, just let me say I feel for you.
I can honestly say that in all my life I've know... four? Way back in school there was a kid that lived in a rather impoverished area of our very, very small town. He was well known for telling "stories". They weren't the kind of lies that would hurt anyone, they just served to make him look silly as he was found out everytime. The second one was a dear friend of mine, who did this and I knew it, but I learned to just glean through the commentary to pick out the truth. Hers was done to make herself look (and probably feel) important as she had some real problems going on in her life. The third one is about the same, a life being so downtrodden and sad as to warrant pity and compassion, but no strength or motivation to rise above it. He is also quite easy to read and it's pretty obvious when he's telling the truth or lying.
The fourth person I've known that has this, well I can't really call it anything but a disease as pathology itself is a study of diseases, does it willingly and knowingly and only to improve their life and station in life. They will create stories which have some basis in fact, but are mostly all fiction and drama. In a different regard from the 3 people mentioned above, this one has no compunctions as to doing this, knows full well they are doing it and just flat doesn't care. The wake they leave behind them as this carries on can be quite devastating emotionally for the friends who stand behind them, only to find out they were horribly in the wrong all along. For this type of person I can only hope that eventually they will develop some compassion and empathy for others. At some point they are going to meet up with someone who quite simply, will set them in their place and if they are lucky, they won't be hurt physically in the process. The biggest problem with this type of person is that you just never know when to believe them, and when they are lying to your face. They honestly believe the fabrication they have thrown out there, but if pinned to the wall they will admit the untruth. It's pinning them to the wall that gets tricky because they jump from one person to the next, repeatedly looking for someone new to coerce or convince something other than what is really going on. By the time the trait is learned, the damage is done and they have moved on to the next innocent victim.
I'm not a scientist, but even the scientific world can't agree on exactly what causes this phenomenon. Personally I have to ask myself, is it self image? Is it and overpowering need to be something that they are not and the inability, or unwillingness to go through the proper steps to attain the pinnacle they would like to have everyone believe they reside? Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? Is it hormonal? Genetic? I've never been one to argue nature or nurture as I feel both impact our world, but like the lifetime criminals that argue they are the way they are due to their parents, it simply doesn't fly once they are out on their own and still committing the acts as they are then completely under their own control and guidance. There does come a point in your life when the situations you find yourself in are all yours and nobody elses.
If you take nothing else from this reading, know for a certainty that you, and you alone create your environment. We all set the attitude of our daily lives and if you manage to maintain a calm, then you have reached a level I've not yet attained definitely, but one I strive for. Sometimes this means cutting the nasties from my life and concentrating on the positives. (I'm getting very good at biting my fingers though!) However, if you are in a constant environment of stress and turmoil then perhaps you should look inward to find the common source, ask yourself honestly what you can do to change your position in life, and for once in your life, be honest with yourself as hard as the realization may be.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Wow.. it's official...
I have my very first case of bonafide, died in the wool, pain in the butt... writer's block! This sucks. I mean this really sucks! I have all this motivation and it's, well it's a little frustrating!
Ok, before I have to chastise my self for overuse of the ! mark, I will have to see if I can break it without having a nervous breakdown. My first project of sorts currently in the works is an article on the Arabian horse. The Learning Hub on the website said to search for competitive articles of the same subject matter, unless I was certain that I could write better. After a brief perusal I believe I can!
(oops.. sorry)
So here we go, an article on Arabian horses. Herein lies the next dilemma. How do you stuff a millenia of fact, legend, myth and historical data in 1000 max word article? What are the important parts I want to address ? Let's lay this out:
1. Origins of the breed - shrouded in mystery but with much speculation.
2. Spread of the breed across the world - wars, rumors of wars, warmongers, solders and .. well warriors for the most part though there were some horses given as gifts to dignitaries who presumably were there to avoid.. war? Wow, glad we got that sorted through.. sheesh!
3. Impact of the breed on other light horse breeds, and some not so light horse breeds - Thoroughbreds of course, and anything descending from a Thoroughbred cross. How about warmbloods and even some breeds of pony (though there are those that would swear ponies are direct spawns of hell!) ?
4. The Arabian in the horse industry today - Their ranking in popularity, which while some would argue is quite low, it's actually quite high compared to many other breeds.
5. The future of the industry - Ok that's just depressing. I might just save that for later.
6. Reference material for credibility and to encourage the reader to go find far more information than I can shove into that type of story - Wiki and ArabianHorses.org, both credible and search engine optimized. (See what I did there? ;)
Now I'm sure when this all comes down I'm sure I will be pushed right to the max on the 1000 word limit. Lovely, just about the time I get things rolling I have to come to a screeching halt!
Have a happy Tuesday folks. I'm off in a bit to load hay, unload hay, feed hay and groom the hay burners. Oh, and write my article. ;)
Ok, before I have to chastise my self for overuse of the ! mark, I will have to see if I can break it without having a nervous breakdown. My first project of sorts currently in the works is an article on the Arabian horse. The Learning Hub on the website said to search for competitive articles of the same subject matter, unless I was certain that I could write better. After a brief perusal I believe I can!
(oops.. sorry)
So here we go, an article on Arabian horses. Herein lies the next dilemma. How do you stuff a millenia of fact, legend, myth and historical data in 1000 max word article? What are the important parts I want to address ? Let's lay this out:
1. Origins of the breed - shrouded in mystery but with much speculation.
2. Spread of the breed across the world - wars, rumors of wars, warmongers, solders and .. well warriors for the most part though there were some horses given as gifts to dignitaries who presumably were there to avoid.. war? Wow, glad we got that sorted through.. sheesh!
3. Impact of the breed on other light horse breeds, and some not so light horse breeds - Thoroughbreds of course, and anything descending from a Thoroughbred cross. How about warmbloods and even some breeds of pony (though there are those that would swear ponies are direct spawns of hell!) ?
4. The Arabian in the horse industry today - Their ranking in popularity, which while some would argue is quite low, it's actually quite high compared to many other breeds.
5. The future of the industry - Ok that's just depressing. I might just save that for later.
6. Reference material for credibility and to encourage the reader to go find far more information than I can shove into that type of story - Wiki and ArabianHorses.org, both credible and search engine optimized. (See what I did there? ;)
Now I'm sure when this all comes down I'm sure I will be pushed right to the max on the 1000 word limit. Lovely, just about the time I get things rolling I have to come to a screeching halt!
Have a happy Tuesday folks. I'm off in a bit to load hay, unload hay, feed hay and groom the hay burners. Oh, and write my article. ;)
Finally an Author... Somewhat!
Today, after an online submission of a sample writing, I was accepted as a freelance writer for a popular online article site. Now, I don't expect the bucks to start rolling in, but it's a start and I'm tickled! So in the coming days and weeks, I am going to do more writing on the blog and kind of highlight some of the stuff I've written over the years. Primarily what I do is fiction, I dont know if you could even call them short stories but they are pieces of a story that give a glimpse into a bigger picture. One at least called Dark Gift I may actually turn into a story at some point. Right now it's just a fun (kind of scarey) read.
In looking through my computer this evening I found a few that I forgot I even had. Here's one of my favorites and pretty much summed up a period in my life where I was trying desperately to find out who "Donna" was. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
Hello World
I woke up this morning, rolling over in my bed to realize once again that bed is just too big and empty for one person. I suppose I'm back to the couch tonight but before I roll over to get up for the day, I lay there for a few minutes staring at the wallpaper decorated with small ivy leaves, not really focusing on anything in particular, just letting my mind wander back over yesterday and the conversation he and I had. It haunts me alot, wanting to trust but being so afraid of being hurt again. Wanting him just to be here so we'd know one way or another what was going to transpire with things. Heaving a small sigh, I fling the covers off of me, and sit on the edge of the bed for a minute, watching the horses out around the barn through the window. They will be hungry so I get up, pull on a pair of old black boxers.. a leftover from an old boyfriend, and slip on a loose t-shirt and pad my way through the house to turn on the coffee pot. The carpet is warm against my feet and I feel the change as I step into the kitchen and it's hard parquet floor.
As I make the preparations for the coffee, I realize how quiet the house is.. how lonely. Sham is mewling round my feet, wanting his breakfast too and as I push the start button on the coffee maker, I bend down to pick him up and cuddle him close. Funny how a cat never has that nasty smell like a dog does.. he just smells clean tho he's never been bathed in his life. He purrs and rubs his face against my neck, my friend, my ally when everything else in my life is shit. I put him to the floor as I reach in to fill his bowl with food for the day and he forgets me as he goes to his tuna/salmon/chicken surprise.
I slip on my old barn shoes and make my way to the feed room, opening the door as the old black and white barn cat jumps into the feed barrel to see if there is a mouse for breakfast this morning. There is none, so she looks at me expectantly like I'm supposed to produce one for her. I laugh, "Silly girl" as I scratch her ears and she meows at me quietly and begins to purr. The silver gelding walks round the side of the barn by now, knowing that it's breakfast time he's come to hurry me along. I pour his feed out into his bucket and scratch his neck as he eats. So big, so much mass and muscle, but so soft and so gentle to be around. The other horses by now are alerted to the sound of feed and start to make their noises to hurry me along. I throw them each hay and give them their grain, squishing through the mud that yesterday's rain left. it's still misting.. better put the geldings hay under the tree where he'll have some shelter to eat.
Finishing my chores, I make my way back inside.. carefully pulling my muddy boots off at the door and padding to the kitchen barefoot. I'm always barefoot... a by-product of growing up in the country I suppose.. don't wear shoes unless it's cold outside or I'm in the barn doing something and then it's iffy.. usually I'm barefoot too then but a bit more careful around steel shod hooves.
The coffee is finished now and as I pour a large cup I feel Sham again wrapped around my ankles. In the darkened kitchen all I see in his black face is his big green eyes and a pink mouth with white fangs when he talks to me, thanking me for breakfast and finding his way into the bedroom to lounge on my pillow for the rest of the day. I add creamer and sugar into my favorite coffee mug and stand there, leaned against the counter listening to the rain outside get heavier as I take a first deep drink of the hot, strong, creamy coffee. Going to be another long day it looks like. I make my way then into my office, picking up the CD's that Sham has once again knocked to the floor, and sit down in my big comfy chair hitting the power button on my computer at the same time. The old machine boots up, slowly.. noisely... protesting my waking it's slumber. It logs in easily to the internet and I turn on my messengers waiting to see who might be around to talk to.
Hello world.
In looking through my computer this evening I found a few that I forgot I even had. Here's one of my favorites and pretty much summed up a period in my life where I was trying desperately to find out who "Donna" was. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
Hello World
I woke up this morning, rolling over in my bed to realize once again that bed is just too big and empty for one person. I suppose I'm back to the couch tonight but before I roll over to get up for the day, I lay there for a few minutes staring at the wallpaper decorated with small ivy leaves, not really focusing on anything in particular, just letting my mind wander back over yesterday and the conversation he and I had. It haunts me alot, wanting to trust but being so afraid of being hurt again. Wanting him just to be here so we'd know one way or another what was going to transpire with things. Heaving a small sigh, I fling the covers off of me, and sit on the edge of the bed for a minute, watching the horses out around the barn through the window. They will be hungry so I get up, pull on a pair of old black boxers.. a leftover from an old boyfriend, and slip on a loose t-shirt and pad my way through the house to turn on the coffee pot. The carpet is warm against my feet and I feel the change as I step into the kitchen and it's hard parquet floor.
As I make the preparations for the coffee, I realize how quiet the house is.. how lonely. Sham is mewling round my feet, wanting his breakfast too and as I push the start button on the coffee maker, I bend down to pick him up and cuddle him close. Funny how a cat never has that nasty smell like a dog does.. he just smells clean tho he's never been bathed in his life. He purrs and rubs his face against my neck, my friend, my ally when everything else in my life is shit. I put him to the floor as I reach in to fill his bowl with food for the day and he forgets me as he goes to his tuna/salmon/chicken surprise.
I slip on my old barn shoes and make my way to the feed room, opening the door as the old black and white barn cat jumps into the feed barrel to see if there is a mouse for breakfast this morning. There is none, so she looks at me expectantly like I'm supposed to produce one for her. I laugh, "Silly girl" as I scratch her ears and she meows at me quietly and begins to purr. The silver gelding walks round the side of the barn by now, knowing that it's breakfast time he's come to hurry me along. I pour his feed out into his bucket and scratch his neck as he eats. So big, so much mass and muscle, but so soft and so gentle to be around. The other horses by now are alerted to the sound of feed and start to make their noises to hurry me along. I throw them each hay and give them their grain, squishing through the mud that yesterday's rain left. it's still misting.. better put the geldings hay under the tree where he'll have some shelter to eat.
Finishing my chores, I make my way back inside.. carefully pulling my muddy boots off at the door and padding to the kitchen barefoot. I'm always barefoot... a by-product of growing up in the country I suppose.. don't wear shoes unless it's cold outside or I'm in the barn doing something and then it's iffy.. usually I'm barefoot too then but a bit more careful around steel shod hooves.
The coffee is finished now and as I pour a large cup I feel Sham again wrapped around my ankles. In the darkened kitchen all I see in his black face is his big green eyes and a pink mouth with white fangs when he talks to me, thanking me for breakfast and finding his way into the bedroom to lounge on my pillow for the rest of the day. I add creamer and sugar into my favorite coffee mug and stand there, leaned against the counter listening to the rain outside get heavier as I take a first deep drink of the hot, strong, creamy coffee. Going to be another long day it looks like. I make my way then into my office, picking up the CD's that Sham has once again knocked to the floor, and sit down in my big comfy chair hitting the power button on my computer at the same time. The old machine boots up, slowly.. noisely... protesting my waking it's slumber. It logs in easily to the internet and I turn on my messengers waiting to see who might be around to talk to.
Hello world.
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