Debbienho !

More than you think you need, love.  Some creatives are inspired by nature. They look at a stunning sunset, the purples and blues and reds layering the sky, or fluffy golden ducklings following their mama. Then they break out their paintbrushes and knock out something wonderful of their own, or get out their computers and unleash a torrent of words, carpal tunnel syndrome be damned.  I do not get inspired by sceneries. I like them, mind you. I think cityscapes are awesome. Sometimes on my walks home I get giddy with delight, staring at the dreamlike radiance of the full yellow moon establishing its presence in the dark sky. But beyond the immediate beauty, nature doesn’t trigger me to make anything of my own. What gets my creative juices flowing is other people’s creative work.  Reading a good book. Watching a complex movie, or the occasional speculative fiction series. Good books capture all my senses, no kidding. My eyes actively see, not the words I’m reading, but the ...

If you like to read personal entries and short fiction, visit Ama Tuffet’s blog . She doesn’t post much now – unfortunately – , but the old stuff is still there, complete with cool aesthetics and contributions from other writers. * The Audacity of Comfort ‘Right.’ Zeinab drops her yellow tote on the table, then lowers her rear into the swivel chair. One hand sweeps thick brown tresses from off her face to a vague point behind her ear. Elbows on the table, she links her fingers and props her chin on them, then emits the longsuffering sigh of a busy person confronted with a full diaper. ‘From where I stand – ’ ‘You’re sitting,’ Martha says, two wrinkled fingers flipping the page of her weighty hardcover. ‘Well, metaphorically,’ Zeinab says in utmost calm, quelling the words that originally threatened to spill – this is an older woman, after all, and it’s too early in the day to invite curses upon her life. ‘The way I look at it, this case is as cut and dried as t...

*Skips the ritual of wishing you a happy new year because we’re well over two weeks into the new decade* Aloha. If you like poetry, if you like prose, if you like interesting perspectives, then check out Underaged Loudmouth. * The teacher’s left strap was crooked.  Peter’s eyes were fixed on the anomaly. It was off her shoulder. He didn’t fancy himself an expert in women’s clothing, but he had seen his fair share of off-shoulder sleeves. When they were intended to be asymmetrical, they had an acceptable weirdness to them, like a synthetic diamond – fake, but good enough for a child’s tiara, so not entirely useless. It was different when they were unintentionally lopsided. With Miss Jones’s every movement, the sagging sleeve twisted, with such growing persistence that it began to look to Peter like a teasing leech on her pale skin, sucking the wide neckline and the rest of her dress off-centre.   He swallowed, but all the moisture had left his mouth at som...