I know you were confused when I gave you the finger this morning. Please allow me to explain myself. You see, what happened is that your apparent visual impairment as it relates to signal lights and the imminent end of my traffic lane caused me significant aggravation when I nearly missed my exit.

I’m sorry.

For you, a Hyundai driving, definitely not potato faced, veritable specimen of male virility, were simply doing nothing more than picking your nose and ignoring the generally established rules of motorway usage during morning rush hour.

And I, but full of a lifetime of needing to manoeuvre myself around men who think it is their universal right to take up every single bit of space around them, had the audacity to make a sudden and physical display of my displeasure at your behaviour.

After you rolled down your window to wave stupidly at me flipping you the bird, I want you to know I felt a surge of pity. Perhaps you could even say remorse.

I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That my car slid in behind you, probably a little too close, and that I initiated an interaction that you didn’t welcome.

I’m sorry that you had to no choice but to drive with me following you. That you had to sit with the concern that I might come after you. That I could be someone harmless, or I could not be, and you just had no way of knowing.

That must have been really hard for you.

I hope that when you stopped your car you didn’t look around carefully to make sure I hadn’t turned a corner and appeared out of nowhere. That you didn’t wonder how strong I actually was and if you could run properly in the shoes you had on. That you didn’t wonder how closely I’d actually looked at you.

I hope it didn’t make you think about all of the times that other women might have flipped you the bird. Or the ones who got angry when you took up space.

Of the ones who waited so they could find you.

I hope that nobody insinuated you deserved it when you told people about some woman flipping you off. That nobody wondered if you had kind of been asking for it, driving the way you do.

I hope that you didn’t worry about one foolish moment of your day putting you in danger. That one moment of forgetting the way the world around you works didn’t give you a sense of dread. That you didn’t berate yourself because someone could literally kill you just because you drew their attention at the wrong time.

I couldn’t even possibly imagine what feeling all of that might be like.

Until next time; drive safe,

(and maybe think about letting some cars go ahead of you sometimes)

Ursula

Isn’t it Romantic comes to you from Treaty 8 Territory - the traditional home of the Cree, Dene, and unceded territory of the Métis people who have lived, travelled, and gathered on these lands for thousands of years.

I wrote this a little while ago for a prompt on another writing site and it’s sort of languished in my laptop ever since. Which is a shame, because it’s an idea that I sort of love? It’s a short story - but I feel like it reads better split up into parts, so that’s how I’m sharing it. Is it conceited to say I think some of you might like it?

Have I just doomed this post to algorithm hell? I hope not.

Anyway, without further pre-amble, here we go.

Revelations in Suburbia (part one)

In the chill of a desert night, along a lonely stretch of road just outside of the city - never mind which one, a barely perceptible rumble slides along the asphalt. So slight that if you had been nearby, you would have questioned if you’d felt anything at all. It grumbled along the side of the road until veering to the left and beginning to move in a wide circle. Round and round it went, spinning smaller and smaller until it disappeared and there was absolute silence in the desert. Not a single insect flew. Nothing crawled along the ground.

Then, under the cool moonlight, silent grains of sand began to shudder and dance before trees and grass sprouted from the earth, growing faster than any natural plant should. Silently, buildings and streets begin to assemble in the night. Next, with the faintest audible ‘pop’, streetlights shot up from the ground, illuminating the newly formed oasis as stone blocks tumbled over themselves surrounding everything with tall walls. Finally, a gate settled itself with a satisfied metallic clank.

Where nothing but horned lizards and scorpions had existed, a picture-perfect small town now sat.

Come daybreak, nobody would question the new development that had seemingly sprung up overnight. That was happening all the time these days, wasn’t it?

And, so, Solomon’s Cove sat. Too perfect on purpose; empty and waiting.

-

Bea had been against looking at gated community houses, but the realtor had insisted. She’d finally agreed to see one, mostly just to shut him up. It was hard to believe that a house like this was in her price range, but he had assured her that the sellers were more concerned with the home going to the right family than the highest bidder.

It was a beautiful house, she had to admit; practically glowing as they pulled up. The developers had done an amazing job. It was so picturesque that Solomon’s Cove barely looked real.

“The elementary school here is looking for a nurse, did you know that?” he asked, “it might be a pay cut from the hospital – but you wouldn’t be able to beat the commute!” he laughed as he steered her through the kitchen.

Maybe she would be able to sleep again if they moved out of the city.

-

Bea moved another box as Jack played on the floor of his new room.

“Where did you find this, buddy?” Bea crouched as Jack patted at the old puzzle game.

Jack pointed to the closet. Some broken crayons and an old colouring book sat in an oversized box along with some old toy soldiers. The toy soldiers were too small for Jack to play with, but there seemed to be nothing wrong with the game. She dug for some batteries and turned the game on. The yellow square was burnt out – but Jack giggled at the other colours and sounds nonetheless. At least it was better than him staring at his iPad.

-

“Oh, the precious little Lamb.” Bea’s new neighbour, Mrs. Perkins, smiled as she stood in the doorway. “I haven’t seen one of those games in ages.”

“It was in one of the closets when we moved in.” Bea smiled at Jack playing on the floor. “I called the realtor to ask if the sellers wanted it, but they never called me back.”

“Maybe it was waiting for you.”

It was an odd thing to say, but Bea had spent too many nights working in the city’s emergency room to be phased by people saying odd things.

The two of them watched Jack for a moment as he giggled at the game. The blue, red, and green buttons flashed and beeped – but then one of the buttons blinked white. Twice, in quick succession, out of the rhythm of the game. Jack stopped giggling and pulled his hands back. After a beat the colours began to flash again, and he cautiously poked the buttons before giggling to himself and resuming playing.

“Did you see that?” Bea turned to see her new neighbour staring at the game intently. “Mrs. Perkins?” Bea asked, “Are you alright? Mrs. Perkins?”

The elderly woman jumped before laughing awkwardly.

“Oh my, forgive an old lady,” she patted her purse. “Just lost in thought. I best be going.”

-

Bea adjusted her name tag as she stood outside of the principal’s office. The sounds of a woman shouting floated through the door in front of her. She took a deep breath before she knocked.

“Here’s the school nurse now.” Principal Anders nodded as Bea stepped into the room. A blonde woman with blazing eyes spun towards her. Heavy perfume seemed to swirl around her as she faced Bea.

“Nurse Wood, this is Linda King. She has come by with some concerns about the notification that was sent out to our parents and caregivers.”

Bea looked at the woman in front of her. Linda was fuming. Her nostrils flared as she pursed her lips at her.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. King. I’m happy to answer any questions you -“

“Who do you think you are?” Linda cut her off, her voice rising, “You think you know better than me how to raise my own child?”

Bea held back a sigh. The measles note. She had been thrilled to see the school board working with public health authorities to offer boosters and free vaccine sessions.

Evidently, Linda King was not.

“Of course she’s not saying that.” The principal interjected, “She’s not saying that. Right, Nurse Wood?”

“Of course not, Ms. King.” Bea kept her voice steady, “we’re simply making parents aware of the opportunity to make sure they and their children’s vaccines are up to date.”

“Poisoning them for the government, you mean?”

“Ms. King, Nurse Wood delivered the communication as per the school board. Nobody is forcing you to vaccinate Jeremy.”

Linda spun so quickly back to the principal that for a split-second it looked like her skeleton turned before the rest of her did. A flash of a putrid stench hit Bea and her stomach turned. She discreetly tried to cover her nose as Principal Anders continued to bear the brunt of Linda’s rage. Bea had smelled some pretty horrendous things in the hospital, but this nearly made her vomit. She didn’t know how he was able to keep a straight face with the smell.

“I won’t surround my son with a bunch of mutant robots. Measles is good for the immune system. I’ve read the reports!” She threw her bag over her shoulder and stabbed a finger at Bea, “this isn’t over.”

Bea stood beside Principal Anders as they watched Linda storm into the parking lot and peal away in her white Range Rover.

“Vaccinate as many people as you can by the end of next week, Bea. I’d bet money she’s going to the school board.”

-

Principal Anders was right. Linda King had cried and shouted for fifty-six minutes straight at the last school board meeting before the board decided to rescind the booster program.

It had taken a month for the first measles case to hit the school. This afternoon Bea had run into Linda King at school pickup; the sickening smile she had given Bea felt like poison. For a moment it almost Bea had the strangest feeling, like Linda King was happy to see kids getting sick. But, no mother could want that. Right?

Not for the first time, she laid awake in the dark.

-

In the chill of a desert night, along a perfect street in perfect Solomon’s Cove, a large crack appeared in the sidewalk. A necrotic, poisonous stench curled up from the pavement before blowing softly away along the night breeze.

End of part one.

-
Have you guessed what this story is about? Let me know in the comments. Until next time, xoxo.

Isn’t it Romantic comes to you from Treaty 8 Territory, which since time immemorial, is the traditional and ancestral lands of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people. This land is beautiful, and I’m grateful to live in a part of the world where I’m surrounded by knowledge keepers and community that enable me to learn more about those that have gone before us and what they experienced and endured. I am hopeful I can find meaningful and continued ways to contribute to the act of reconciliation and express gratitude for these peoples and their land.

Want to leave a tip? Click here!

What was intended to be a short break from posting in the fall of last year has morphed into something much longer than I’ve wanted.

I’ve struggled to find the right spot to come back to substack with, and it has felt very overwhelming. I miss posting and want to get over this, so I’m ripping off the band aid and putting my arse back out there. This post is much more of an overshare and ramble than I would normally do, but I think maybe also it might be a little bit cathartic to just spit it out?

I have no idea. I’ve been thinking about it too much.

Like the subtitle alludes to - I’ve experienced a bit of a rough patch.

For the last year or so, I was trying to build a friendship online with someone who seemed to treat me like kind of a big sister at first. This was flattering, of course. But I didn’t exercise the same degree of caution I usually do. Maybe it’s because this person seemed fragile? I don’t know. I wanted to help them.

Over time, this person developed an unhealthy attachment to me while simultaneously obsessing about how everything I said and did was disrespectful. Nearly every aspect of my life was diminished and criticized - typically this took the form of telling me how I had hurt them by doing or saying random things. I was constantly apologizing for slights and transgressions against them.

This person’s warped understanding of the world around them, coupled with their unhealthy fixation on me, created a situation I searched for months on how to escape without hurting this person. I finally saw that they were committed so seeing me a certain way, and that wasn’t ever going to change. It was only going to continue to get worse.

Now that I am away from the situation I can see how unhealthy that was. I know other people’s emotions aren’t my responsibility. In fact, I’ve given a very lovely therapist a lot of money over the last decade and a half to teach me that. But, somehow this person sucked me in.

This horrible situation is not the only reason I stopped writing articles - I can’t blame it all on them. But, in the aftermath of that situation I can see how fully draining it was.

And, I’m angry, you know? Because I’ve been afraid (and still am) of what this person would do if they saw me write something about the situation. I couldn’t post anything anywhere without this person dissecting it to death - or being bothered that I was online and not talking to them. This person took the fun and excitement I was having about being on substack and twisted it.

Even though I’ve banned and blocked all over the internet, and done all I can to limit their ability to communicate with me, are they still lurking around here somewhere? Will they derive a sick satisfaction that I thought of them enough to write something like this? Am I poking at something? Will they write some weird post of their own about how much of an asshole I am for that one time I talked about struggling to gain weight when I was sick? Or how much of a shit person I am because I hadn’t checked in on them after they felt like someone was mean to them in a chat thread?

(Those are real examples, by the way.)

As someone who is afraid to be seen and perceived but also being someone who wants to conquer this fear and be audacious about pursuing a creative life, this situation messed with me. Big time.

Upon reflection, I wonder if this was a lesson I needed? That you can be trying your absolute hardest, holding on to your own integrity and doing everything you can to be a good friend and person, and people will still only see what they want to see. Is there something freeing in that? Will releasing this fear make me a more creative and better human?

I don’t know. But, I’m tired of thinking about it and being scared. So, fuck it, I guess.

Subscribe now

Isn’t it Romantic comes to you from Treaty 8 Territory, which since time immemorial, is the traditional and ancestral lands of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people. This land is beautiful, and I’m grateful to live in a part of the world where I’m surrounded by knowledge keepers and community that enable me to learn more about those that have gone before us and what they experienced and endured. I am hopeful I can find meaningful and continued ways to contribute to the act of reconciliation and express gratitude for these peoples and their land.

It was a dreary, rough day for me - and taking an evening to write about a bitchy unicorn helped. I hope you enjoy this a little bit too.

A Unicorn in a Storm

“You can’t do this to me! I am a unicorn. Unicorns do not go to jail! I’m going to sue the bells off you! You’ll regret this!” Natalie rattled her horn against the cell bars before screaming in frustration and stomping her hooves.

“‘First time?” A small, bare chested, pot-bellied satyr looking creature was slouching on a low bench. He picked at his teeth as he looked at her.

She turned her nose into the air. She might have been locked into this dump, but she wasn’t going to lower herself to talk to a grubby little half man in a jail cell. His chest was too shiny, and his horns curved in a way that was practically obscene.

He was probably in here for something indecent.

“Never met a Krampelf before, huh?” He slid off the bench, his hooves clattering as he stretched on the floor. “The name’s Bob.”

She pointedly looked away.

“Listen, Natalie. You could have it a lot worse.” Bob drawled as he conjured a deck of cards and began a game of solitaire, “You could have been put into the Naughty jurisdiction’s holding cells.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m part Krampus, I know everything about you, Natalie.” Bob’s eyes never left his cards. “I know that you’re secretly jealous of reindeer, I know you’re the one that peed on the snow art installation outside of the snowflake factory. Oh, and I know that you’re the one that wrote ‘bum-hole’ in the snow outside of Santa’s stables last year. And that the only thing you ever wanted when you were a colt was to get to be the star on top of the tree, just once.”

She tried to keep her expression neutral. She had done those things. But she didn’t need to let him know that. Her throat felt tight.

It had been a long time since she’d thought about being a Christmas star.

-

“Natalie Nice. You are hereby charged with one count of intention to commit minor naughtiness, one count of potty mouth, and three counts of disturbing the peace. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty! I am innocent, Santa!” Natalie sputtered, “Your elves should be out there arresting actual criminals! This is unacceptable.”

“That will be quite enough Ms. Nice.” Santa lifted his glasses and rubbed his face wearily before muttering, “I don’t have time for this.”

Natalie seethed as Santa reviewed the papers in front of him. He opened another file and tilted his head. “Bailiff, bring me the next docket.”

Bob strolled into the courtroom without a care in the world. He hopped up on a small stool placed in front of the stand.

“Sup, Uncle Nick.”

“Again, with the yetis? Really?”

The Krampelf shrugged.

Santa wagged his finger at Bob. “Bauble Pintinsel, your mischief has been getting far too close to naughty for far too long.”

“Bauble?” Natalie muttered and Bob shot her a dark look.

“Natalie Nice, you are sentenced to one tour in the 4th Snowglobe.”

The gasp from Bob startled Natalie.

“Something wrong, Bauble?” Santa raised his eyebrows. “Bauble Pintinsel, you are sentenced to community service. This will be served in the method of tour guide to Ms. Nice.”

“What?” Bob shrieked, “Why do I have to go with her?

Santa shrugged before he flipped the files closed.

“Instead, I could just declare you both officially naughty and you’ll progress to your mother’s jurisdiction of Naughty in Krampus Court.”

“Uncle Nick, come on. You know I’m not actually a Naughty.”

“It’s Santa Claus in this room, Bauble.” He flipped the files closed and stood up. “If you’re not a Naughty, you should stop acting like you are.”

-

“Stay close.” Bob called over his shoulder. “It’s easy to get lost down here.”

“What is this place?”

“It’s the Christmas Penitence Department.” They passed a door and Natalie felt a cold draft wash over her hooves.

“What’s behind these doors?”

“Different punishments. You’ve got your standard Scroogings, your Grinchenings, Otterings, Buble-ing, Ralphieing.” Bob pointed at different doors as they continued walking. “Down there is your Gruberings, Mogwaiifications, Ewoking…”

“What is that awful smell?”

“Oh, that?” Bob sniffed, “That would be a Cousin Eddying.”

The stench of sewer gas was nearly overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the sound that assaulted her ears next.

“Oh, my snowflakes!”

Bob sucked his teeth.

“There must be a McCartneying going on. Wonder what the poor sod did to deserve that?”

Natalie felt a shudder running from her hooves all the way through to her horn. She stepped closer to Bob as they rushed past the awful sound.

-

“We’re here.”

Bob nodded at an elf sitting on a large stool and they hopped down from their perch and swiped a badge across keypad and entered a long code. Finally, with a loud beep and a heavy sounding click a set of double doors opens and Natalie followed Bob into a bunker so large that she couldn’t see how far it stretched to the other side. Quiet and dimly lit, four massive glass domes hung under spotlights in the room. Under each dome was a different coloured platform, all pleasantly lit.

Except for the last one.

That one had plain, grey steps and the light above it kept buzzing and flickering. The large number 4 was faded and the sign looked like it had never been replaced.

Bob gestured Natalie to the platform and she hesitantly climbed the stairs. As soon as they stepped inside the large, red circle there was a loud, industrial warning sound and a voice began to count down.

“SNOWGLOBE SEAL IN PROGRESS – PLATFORM FOUR. TEN - PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT TO LEAVE THE PLATFORM. NINE – PLEASE DO NOT APPROACH THE PLATFORM. EIGHT - PLEASE DO NOT LICK THE GLOBE. SEVEN – YOUR TONGUE WILL FREEZE TO THE GLASS. SIX – I REPEAT, PLEASE DO NOT LICK THE GLOBE. FIVE…”

The globe above them began to descend until it landed over the two of them with a loud thud.

“Stop! Stop!” A panicked elf was running towards them, their voice muffled through the glass. “You can’t put a unicorn in…”

The voice was drowned out as a fan whirred to life and the globe began to fill with snow. It swirled and swirled, filling the globe until Natalie couldn’t see anything.

Electrical shocks began to bounce between snowflakes as they swirled around them. The fresh smell of snow began to be overpowered with the stench of ozone as dark clouds started forming above their heads. Bob looked uneasy as the clouds grew bigger.

“This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.”

END

Isn’t it Romantic comes to you from Treaty 8 Territory, which since time immemorial, is the traditional and ancestral lands of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people. This land is beautiful, and I’m grateful to live in a part of the world where I’m surrounded by knowledge keepers and community that enable me to learn more about those that have gone before us and what they experienced and endured.

I am hopeful I can find meaningful and continued ways to contribute to the act of reconciliation and express gratitude for these peoples and their land.

As I move into the new year, I’ll be working to find a better balance between showing up here consistently and making sure I’m not overloading myself with too many things until I burn out, make myself sick, and have to spend a month where my body is forcing me to rest.

Ahem.

Anyway…

As I’m writing this, winter has fully arrived here. Living in Treaty 8 territory during the winter is no joke. The ancestral home of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people sees long, dark winters. And, by the Gods, is it cold. But the people that have lived here since time immemorial learned how to handle the winter and enjoy the time it brought them – and it reminds me that I can too. In truth, the cold makes me feel more connected to nature, and I’m grateful to move along with the season and enjoy everything that it brings.

Since it is the winter, I thought I would return to my posting with a short Christmas themed story. This is not the Krampus romance that I’ve mentioned to some of you, but hopefully that will be a present for 2026 (spoiler alert, Santa is the bad guy in that one). Instead, here is a short story I wrote recently where the prompt was “apples”. I’m still on the fence about the title though – I originally called it “Just the Right Crunch”, but I can’t resist a pun and am debating retitling it to “How do you like them Apples?” Let me know what you think in the comments below.

Now, this story isn’t romantic, and it’s probably not the sort of Christmas tale you’d expect. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy.

How do you Like Them Apples?

It’s too dark in this cellar. I guess that’s to be expected, but still, it’s boring and cold.

The fat man swans down chimneys, eats cookies, and takes all the glory, and I have to find cracks and seep in like frost on a cold morning.

Nobody ever leaves out treats for me, but I get hungry too. After all of these years, I no longer feel bad about helping myself and set to finding a couple of apples to munch. I like apples. Sometimes - if you bite one just right - it’s snap almost sounds like bones breaking in your teeth.

I eat, cores and all, not caring about crunching loudly in the dark. But, as I’m licking their sweet juice from my claws, I hear the soft jingle of bells moving through the house above me.

That’s odd. His magic can keep him as quiet as a feather.

What is he doing?

My tail twitches as the door to the cellar opens. Golden light spills down the stairs, surprising and momentarily blinding me. It’s been centuries since I’ve had to scare a child. We never actually took them, you know. Just a glimpse of me - horns shining in the firelight with frost glittering on my hooves – was always enough. But it’s not the fat man waiting for me at the top tonight.

It’s someone much smaller.

I let my horns glimmer in the light and open my mouth to show off my razor-sharp teeth as I climb the creaking stairs. Silence settles back over the house as I tower over the child.

She’s not afraid when she sees me. Instead, her eyes are wide with something I’ve never seen from this close before.

Hope.

When she wraps her tiny hand around my claw, Nicholas’ magic washes over me. Her lips quirk and I understand.

Tonight, I am not just a Krampus.

I am her Krampus.

I wonder if Nicholas knows the dangerous game he is playing. Does he remember the old ways?

Her eyes are too old. Too sad.

I never see the children when they’re nice.

I decide I don’t care if he remembers or not. If she wants me to drag this entire village to Hell, I will. Yuletide be damned.

I spread my arms to gather my own magic before I realize I still have an apple in my hand. Without thinking, I hand it to her. A Krampus never gives anything away. The spark of generosity hurts my chest.

With a grunt I shake off the feeling, resuming my task. Chains clink across the floor, sliding from the shadows and draping over me. The bells clanging along with them sound anything but merry as I let my full, disgusting, damned form take shape in this cellar doorway. The stench of brimstone, blood, and rotten birch fills the air as the cold hearth in the next room springs to life with an unholy fire that can only belong to the gates of Hell.

The child doesn’t even have to tell me where to go. I know the way.

When I drag him down the stairs, his screams are silent and cut off from this world. He’s already in Hell; he just doesn’t know it yet. Still, I can see the words he mouths when he spots her standing beside the fire. If she didn’t already want him gone, I would have taken him anyway.

It’s satisfying to throw him into the flames. Afterwards, I close my eyes and revel in the heat of the regular flames replacing the hellfire in the hearth. After a long moment, I open my eyes and see the little girl looking up at me, a question on her face.

A nod from me is enough. She understands he isn’t coming back. She doesn’t have to thank me. I can feel her gratitude choking the air around me like smoke. With a nod back, she hands me the apple.

The strange sensation from being given a gift feels uncomfortable as I bite the apple, but I can’t help smiling when the sound crunches like bones in the firelight. She watches me eat the whole thing before I let myself begin to fade into the winter night.

“Merry Christmas, Mister Krampus.”

The End.

Anybody else kinda want to eat an apple now?

If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading. As of me writing this post, 92 people have subscribed to this publication. One of the goals I set when I launched my Substack in April was to gain 100 subscribers within the first 12 months. It felt audacious and scary at the time, and I’m overwhelmed to be so close to my goal.

I appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you for being here. Stay warm.

Want to buy me an apple?

I do know that it is a spectacularly crispy fall day here in Treaty 8 territory, the traditional and ancestral lands of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people. Each day this week, as I drove down the large hill that takes me to work, I could see the river changing as the temperatures keep dropping. Flecks of ice are starting to form, but the speed of the current is as strong as ever. Watching the river reminds me that change and flow is inevitable and put some of the silly things I’ve been worrying about lately in perspective.

For example, I really wanted to record and post this story for Halloween, but being responsible and getting my vaccines knocked me on my butt and then I lost my voice. I was beating myself up about not being consistent or more prepared for my Substack posts, but in the grand scheme of things – one week does not a Substack ruin, you know? C’est la vie and all that jazz.

I was tagged in a spooky campfire story challenge by , with the following prompt from :

One day when you’re walking, you find a bracelet on the ground. It’s beautiful, and looks expensive, so you turn it into the lost and found. Heading back to your apartment, you’re excited to relax. But when you go to hang up the keys, the bracelet is hanging on your key hook. The bracelet you just turned in. Where did it come from, and why is it attached to you?

Now- I admit – if I was entering a contest with this take on the prompt, I’d probably end up disqualified. But, hopefully Grace or Lucy aren’t too disappointed in my take on it.

Finders, Keepers

“Hello? Oh, another visitor for the Corner Market. How fortuitous. Lovely, lovely.”

The voice is coming from somewhere, but as your eyes are adjusting to the sudden change in brightness, you’re not entirely sure where. Blinking rapidly, eyes burning, everything finally comes into focus. You look around; every surface is covered in something. It’s all cluttered, and there’s a strange hum that you can feel more than you can hear. A small woman, red hair piled on the top of her head in a knot that seems about to fall apart, appears around one of the stacks. Layers upon layers of colourful clothing are draped over her, a mass of colours and textures from head to toe - all topped off with a pair of large, white bunny slippers. As you’re looking down at her, you swear that one of the slippers looks up at you.

That’s impossible though. Right?

I mean, you had just been stepping off of the train on the way to work and now you appeared to be… well, you’re not really sure where you are exactly.

The woman peers up at you. Her eyes are the same colour as her hair, glinting red at you in the dim light of the shop.

Okay, this time the slippers definitely looked.

“Um, hi?”

She pushes an imaginary pair of glasses up her nose, fluffing one of her cardigans around herself.

“I’ll put on some tea.”

-

The woman sits across from you, sipping something that looks unlike any tea you’ve ever seen.

“Where am I?”

“You are in my store.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nobody found ever does.” She sighs as she swirls her tea. “Tell me, have you ever had something that followed you? That wouldn’t leave you?”

Your mind immediately goes to the old leather watch that keeps showing up on your nightstand. The one you’d strapped to your wrist this morning before leaving for work…

“Ahh, I can see you have.” Her voice sounds older, gravelly even, “I was once like you.” She held up her wrist. “For me, it was this bracelet. Sparkling at me in the snow outside my apartment building. I turned it into the lost and found three times. Three times it came back. Three times before I tried it on. Three times before it changed my fate.” She dropped her hand. “Next thing I know I’m swirling around in this room. Although it wasn’t quite as full as it is now.”

You shift in your chair, feeling the weight of the room pressing in around you. The humming seems to shift, and the items stacked around you appear to almost whisper, murmuring so slightly you still doubt your ears, but the hair on your neck raises just the same. You can’t stop yourself from fiddling with the old watch on your wrist.

“You’re in the void, Pork Chop.”

“My name is -”

“Your name is irrelevant here. All that matters is that you were found,” the ears on her bunny slippers twitching as she speaks. “You see, there is a darkness. It seeps through shadows and shade. Looking for sustenance. For a feast of a soul. Fate offered you a gift, and you accepted it.”

You shake your head.

“No. There’s some mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You put on that watch. It found you. And now you have a choice.” She crosses her legs, ignoring your protests as her bunny slipper clad foot gently taps into the air. “Become a Finder or become a Keeper.”

“What are you?”

She smiles and she gestures to the stacks, “I am a Keeper.”

“What does a Keeper do?”

“I keep.”

“Keep what, exactly?”

“Things that are found.”

“And what does a Finder do?” You ask, but something tells you that the answer won’t be helpful.

“Find, of course.”

“Find what?”

As the woman stares at your face, something akin to pity washes over her features.

“Finders find, Pork Chop. They find food for the darkness.” She taps the bracelet on her wrist, “They find the strange magic that gets trapped inside of the things mortals make. Finders find and Keepers keep.”

“And if I don’t want to be either of those things?”

“The Finders would find that too.”

“This is insane.” You shake your head before standing up. “You’re insane, and I’m late for work.”

“That life isn’t yours anymore.”

The whispering that you hadn’t been sure was real is getting louder now. You can’t make out the words, but they sound rushed. Worried.

Like a warning.

“Oh dear, you can hear them.” The woman clicks her tongue and pulls her layers closer, “Not a Finder or a Keeper then, it would seem.”

That’s when you notice it.

Inky black rivers of darkness, undulating as something alive slowly begins to ooze down the walls.

-

Finding a door in this place is shockingly easy. Too easy - but you’re too panicked to think about that.

“I wouldn’t, Pork Chop.”

Ignoring the woman, you fling the door open and stumble outside. You’re on the train platform again, but how?

Nobody even glances at you as they all push through on the way to work.

The woman is standing in the doorway behind you, the entrance to the shop hovering about six inches off the ground as her slippers stare at you with wide eyes. The sound of a low grumble, punctuated with a deadly clicking sound, rolls through the station. Shadows begin to pour out of the door, pooling around the woman’s ankles, rising until even her bunny slippers disappear into the inky black.

“You idiot! You can’t go back, you’re already found!”

Her voice is fading as you sprint away from the platform. The grumble rolls behind you, and you realize that whatever it is, it’s laughing at you.

It doesn’t dawn on you at first, that the platform is suddenly too empty now. No people. No trains. The shadows around the station are too long, too big. They stretch for you, inching and bending across every surface, forcing you to leap and twist to avoid them. It is merely an inevitability before your toe catches on the dark, and you smash into the floor.

You claw the watch off of your wrist, throwing it before you scramble to your feet and begin to run again. The darkness is swirling, but the sound of the watch landing with a crack makes it hiss. You run and run, reaching for the doors to the station, finally smashing through them with all of your might, landing hard on the ground.

-

The birds are chirping outside of your window when you finally realize you’re wrestling with your sheets.

Just a dream. A bad dream.

You scoff to yourself, feeling silly as you try to slow your racing heart. But before you sink back into sleep, the sound of something clinking makes you pop your eyes open.

On the nightstand, that old leather wristwatch stares back at you. The one you know you left on the coffee table last night.

Your heartbeat thuds faster and faster in your ears as the watch face stares back at you. A whisper, so faint you can’t even be sure you’re truly hearing it, floats around the room.

“Finders find.”

-

If you’d be open to hearing more of my spookier stuff, let me know in the comments. Likewise, if you think I should stick to working on romance – let me know that too. I’ll be honest, I’m going to keep writing whatever inspires me – but if you’re all liking seeing different content, I do want to take that into consideration.

Now, if you’re looking for your own inspiration, or to find writing camaraderie – check out my friend new Substack . If you’re a fan of fantasy, someone who is still sad they never got whisked away to a magical school, or maybe you’re simply seeking some creative community – this academy might just be the place for you!

If you want to support my work without being a paid subscriber, you can click the tip button below.

Until next time,

xx

Click here to leave a tip :)

I’m writing to you from a very windy and rainy fall day here in Treaty 8 territory, which since time immemorial has been the traditional and ancestral homeland of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people. Watching nature shed her layers and prepare to rest for the winter makes me excited for the coziness of the upcoming darker season. Living in a community so connected to nature has helped me feel gratitude for the land I am but a visitor on, and to better see the different types of beauty that each season shows us.

It’s been a funny sort of week in the world, hasn’t it? Museum heists, destruction of historic properties to build Temu ballrooms, and the growing frenzy of deluded Salty Crackers1 looming over us. It’s hard not to feel tired by all of it.

The heist at the Louvre has got me thinking though…

See, I’ve had a heist story in my head for a long time. An utterly implausible heist. Several years ago, I saw a comedy bit by James Acaster about the British Museum, and it sent me down a rabbit hole about the Parthenon Marbles.

I’m not a historian, but for those of you that aren’t aware, the Parthenon Marbles, formerly referred to as the ‘Elgin Marbles’, are a set of marble sculptures, friezes, etc. from the temple of Athena in Greece that were “sold” to Lord Elgin and removed from the Parthenon while Greece was under Ottoman control at the start of the 19^th century. The legality and permission he had to do this has been contested pretty much since the marbles were removed from Greece and brought to Britain.

Approximately fifty percent of the Parthenon Marbles are currently housed in the British Museum and have been since shortly after Lord Elgin took them from Greece.

Greece has asked for them back. Frequently. They’ve built their own museum for them in Athens, and it houses replicas of the originals in Britain.

The British Museum has been ardent in their defence of keeping them. There are divided opinions on the subject of returning the marbles, and a lot the arguments for keeping them tend to sound kind of…I dunno, privileged white dude coded to me? It is not a good look.

All of this got me thinking – what would happen if someone stole them? What would that mean for reconciliation efforts from the impact of colonialism? What would the domino effect be?

Earlier this month, I started forming the bones of this story by posting a short story about them for another monthly challenge I participate in. I posted it before the heist- and there really is no connection to the Louvre aside both circumstances being about theft. The synchronicity of the two is probably only significant to me, but it still makes for a timely post to share it. So, without further ado…

Lost Marbles

“The mystery of the disappearance of the Elgin- pardon me, Parthenon Marbles has had another shocking twist. Overnight, the priceless artefacts that went missing from the British Museum were discovered in the Acropolis Museum in Athens.”

“It was eerily bare,” The news report cut to an agent being interviewed, “the entire room was just empty.” He stared off into the distance for a moment before giving his head a shake. “The fact that they all showed up in Greece the next day just doesn’t make any sense. It’s impossible to imagine a theft of this magnitude.”

“How would something like this even be possible? Could this is the work of a couple of seasoned art thieves?”

“It’s simply not possible to dismantle 250 feet of frieze, package it, ship it, unpack it, and assemble it in less than 48 hours. That’s the thing.”

“Maybe they didn’t do it in 48 hours?”

“What? Do you think the robbers have a time machine?”

“No, I’m just saying - maybe there’s something missing.”

The interview cut to the anchor speaking about the history of the marbles, and the diplomatic quagmire that was unfolding.

Josephine tapped her finger against her coffee cup. The theft of the marbles was all anyone could talk about, and she couldn’t help but hope that Greece kept refusing to agree on a return. But the reporter was on to something, there’s no way that something like that could have happened in two days. She couldn’t help but be as curious as everyone else was.

-

Six months later

“Josephine, it’s your aunt.”

“Hi Aunt Jo, yes, I can see it’s you that’s calling. Is everything alright?”

“It’s your Uncle Leopold, darling. There’s been an accident.” Her aunt was quiet for a moment before Josephine heard a small sniff. “The house is yours now, I suppose. The funeral is next Saturday.”

Josephine ended the call and stood in her kitchen.

-

The funeral was larger than Josephine expected, and her feet were beginning to hurt as she stood beside her aunt and her best friend, Ellie, at the chapel. Tom kept fidgeting beside her.

“Josephine?”

She spun around at a voice she hadn’t heard in years.

“Archie?”

Archimedes “Archie” Smith stood in the drawing room, his navy suit immaculate, Josephine hugged him politely.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Archimedes.”

“Eleanor”

The two regarded each other a moment before Josephine’s best friend, Ellie, leaned down to hug him as well.

“It’s been too long.”

“Do I get one of those?” Colin stepped beside Archie, and Josephine hugged him tightly until Tom cleared his throat beside her.

“Oh, Tom - this is Archie Smith and Colin McDougal. Boys, this is my boyfriend, Tom.”

There was an awkward silence between the five of them before Colin cleared his throat and looked down at Archie.

“Things must be busy lately, with the theft and all?”

Archie sighed and nodded his head,

“It’s an absolute nightmare. If anyone in Athens, or Greece for that matter knew anything about it - they aren’t talking. And of course they aren’t going to give them back now.”

Ellie spotted Tom’s confused face,

“Archie works with International Relations and the foreign office.”

Archie nodded.

“It’s been six months and there isn’t a remote hint of a lead.”

Colin looked at Josephine,

“Does it feel a bit weird?”

“That’s right. I had forgotten all about that.” Archie looked at her. “A peculiar coincidence.”

“What is?” Tom looked back and forth between the two men.

“When we were kids, Josephine told us how she’d steal the marbles and give them back to Greece if she could.”

-

It was a few days later before Josephine was able to visit Archie to catch up,

“There’s going to be an opening at the V&A in Dundee, I think you could be a great fit for it.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t.” Josephine stammered.

“Why not?” Archie looked at her.

“What is the job?”

“They need a new curator for their architecture and design collection.”

“I’m not talented enough for that.”

He stared at her blankly.

“Well, Tom’s work is in New York anyway.” she explained. “He wouldn’t want to leave the firm and come to Dundee, of all places.”

“What about you, Josephine?” Archie pressed.

“It’s not that simple.” she shook her head.

“Oh, come on, you could find yourself some ramshackle old building and restore to its former glory.” he wheedled.

They both laughed before she shook her head.

“Don’t be silly. I could never.”

“Course you could.”

“It wouldn’t work.”

“It could if you wanted it to.” Archie paid the cheque and the two of them walked out into the sunshine. “You can do anything you want, Josephine. You told me that once, and I believed you. I still do.”

-

Archie’s words were still swirling with Josephine at the end of the week when she met Colin at his boat.

“Archie told me about the job at the V&A,” Colin remarked, “Said you were completely against the idea.” he steered the boat out into the lake and gently pressed the throttle.

“I’m not against it.” She commented, “I just don’t see how it could work.”

Colin said nothing as they drove around the lake. Josephine watching him as he steered. His black hair blew back in the breeze, and his sharp features were highlighted in the daylight. High cheekbones, aquiline nose and dark features made him look like he belonged in a photo shoot instead of a science lab.

“Why are you staring at me?” he kept his eyes ahead as he drove.

“Just admiring how handsome you are.” she replied, “I think you’re getting better with age.”

“Well, I was bound to grow into this nose eventually.” he looked at her from the corner of his eye, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Too bad I can’t say the same for you.” He tossed his hair back, “Too much sitting on your arse has made it go flat.”

“Hey!”

They laughed for a moment before Colin cut the motor and motioned for her to come over. He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She leaned her head against his chest as they looked over the water.

“Your flat ass is freezing.” he commented. “I can feel the cold radiating off of you.”

Josephine snorted,

“Doesn’t matter anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Colin asked her.

“Well, I can’t change the rest of me, can I?” she looked out over the water and held Colin’s arms. “It’s not like I was ever some great beauty to begin with.”

It was Colin that snorted next,

“You’re joking, Josephine.” She was silent as they stood there. “Josephine, I hate to be the one to tell you this.” Colin squeezed her close and moved his head lower, “You’re the only person I know that doesn’t think you’re pretty.”

She felt tears welling in her eyes as they stood there,

“I really missed you.” she started to cry, and Colin squeezed her tighter and stayed silent. She turned and buried her head into his chest and sobbed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.” She tried to pull herself away, but Colin held her,

“No. Don’t do that.’ his voice was firm, “Let it out, darling.” he kissed her forehead and pulled her close to him.

“I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I feel like the person you knew died a long time ago.”

Colin rubbed her back and let her cry a little longer.

“I know that it might seem scary, but if you’re unhappy you can change.” he said softly, “If it’s meant to be with Tom, I’m sure you two could make it work. I’m sure he’d find something here.”

“How’d you get so smart?” Josephine asked.

“I am a doctor.” he quipped.

“Of Marine Biology.”

“Shhhh.” Colin patted her head, and she gave a watery chuckle.

-

The conversations and reconnections Josephine had had with her oldest friends was starting to weigh on her more and more as she sensed Tom’s growing impatience to leave.

“Tom, would you ever consider leaving the US?” she asked him cautiously.

He raised an eyebrow at her,

“What, and come live here?” As he saw her reaction his face softened, “I’m sorry, I know you grew up here.”

“I really want to move back, Tom.” she said quietly. “I feel more myself here than I have in a long time.”

He looked at her a long moment,

“Josephine,” Tom spoke soothingly, “Do you really think you’d be able to start over? I’m not sure you could handle it, sweetheart.” he guided her over to the side of the bed and sat beside her. He stroked her back gently as he continued, “It’s just because you’re away from your daily life that it feels so good. You could move here and hate it - and then what? You’d be stuck.”

Her throat burned as Tom crooned, rubbing her back softly. Telling her all of the ways that she needed him. The ways she needed to be back at their apartment. How they shouldn’t stay longer. Her heart sank with each word.

-

The conversation that she’d had with Tom had left a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away. The smell of the wood paneling and books in the room seemed to make her heart ache worse as the sunset made the walls in Uncle Leopold’s study glow a blazing orange. She surveyed the mess of papers strewn around the room. It looked more like a bomb of notebooks and papers had exploded than it did the office of one of the wealthiest men in Britain.

She slumped in her uncle’s old chair and closed her eyes. Her toes rapped against the side of the desk, and she stopped for a moment before she sat forward at the oddly hollow noise. She tapped again before sliding onto the floor, running her fingers along the underside of the desk. Finding what she was looking for, she pressed a hidden button, releasing the inner wall of the desk with a soft ‘click’.

Her hands started to shake as she spotted a thick envelope addressed to her in the velvet compartment.

My Darling Josephine,

If you’re reading this, it can only mean one thing. I have shuffled off this mortal coil and now live amongst the stars and sea.

I hope that you can someday forgive me for all that I’ve done. Or for everything I did not get to do. I was a poor uncle. But, I have long desired to make it up to you. To fulfill a most excellent idea you outlined so perfectly all of those years ago.

Firstly, I needed to secure an artisan. Then a security company. And, finally, a shipping company.

That was the simple part. Arranging connections across multiple countries came next.

The shipping was the most stressful part of all, I think. The time that the containers spent on the open water was fraught with tension.

The first of them moved in late 2015. A smaller set of independent sculptures - those that most closely resembled each other in patina and colour gradient were moved together. The last piece was taken in 2022 - the frieze itself. The panels proved most arduous to recreate of the entire lot.

Of course, finding space to contain the replicas has proven difficult. However, Virgil so cleverly suggested the bunker beneath the bothy. It was simple enough to expand it under the guise of repair and protection of the castle itself…

“Babe?” Tom called out and Josephine slammed the letter back into the hidden compartment. There was no way she could leave Britain now.

-

And there you have it, the beginnings of what I hope to be a cozy-ish murder mystery heist tale. I hope you liked it – let me know what ridiculous item or heist you think deserves more attention?

Thanks for reading, until next time!

Want to leave a tip? Click here!

Changes are happening over here at Isn’t it Romantic HQ. Of course, by HQ I mean the spare bedroom where my writing desk is located – but changes are happening nonetheless.

See, when I imagined my Substack, or creating any blog – I always had an idea of sharing posts with the option to listen instead of visually consume content - or heaven forbid I say it, I even thought about starting a podcast.

Including an audio component isn’t that much of a leap - I am a storyteller after all. I’ve been told in the past that I do have a voice that is soothing/nice to listen to, so hopefully some of you feel the same. And, if not, you can always ignore the listen button and consume my content in whatever way works for you.

I am also toying with the idea of offering to read other people’s stories as a way to highlight and share some of the amazing talent that exists on Substack. If you’re interested in something like that – please reach out.

Full disclosure, I am still learning how to edit audio, etc. Gentle (aka – kind) feedback is welcome and encouraged. I also have a dog that enjoys snoring on the floor beside me while I write – you might hear doggie snores, sighs, and lord knows what else as he frolics through dreamland beside me.

Another thing that I had imagined originally was including a land acknowledgement in my posts. For any of my readers that might not know what a land acknowledgement is – they are statements that acknowledge the colonisation of Indigenous territories. It’s meant to be something that recognizes the relationships between land and people and give respect for the land that you’re a visitor on. The purpose of me doing this is to contribute in a small way to further reconciliation, and acknowledge that as someone who is not Indigenous, I am a guest on traditional land.

If you’re in the Americas and would like to find out more whose land you live on, you can check out www.native-land.ca. To find out more about reconciliation in Canada, you can visit the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (TRC) and read more about the 94 Calls to Action at the link I’ve provided below1. If you have questions about reconciliation, or how you can contribute in your own way, please feel free to reach out. I’m not an expert, but we’re learning together. If you’re an Indigenous content creator, and are looking for places to feature your work – I’d love to connect.

So, with that – I’d like to share my first land acknowledgement and share that Isn’t it Romantic comes to you from Treaty 8 Territory, which since time immemorial, is the traditional and ancestral lands of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people. This land is beautiful, and I’m grateful to live in a part of the world where I’m surrounded by knowledge keepers and community that enable me to learn more about those that have gone before us and what they experienced and endured. I am hopeful I can find meaningful and continued ways to contribute to the act of reconciliation and express gratitude for these peoples and their land.

Along with these changes, since we are in October and it is technically spooky season, I thought I’d share a little ghost story I wrote a while back. Let me introduce you all to…

Goblin and Ghost

Opal couldn’t feel her toes inside of her boots anymore. The rain was getting colder and colder, and she was sure that she’d started to feel ice hitting her face as she walked. Maybe soon she would stumble across another hollow log like she had last night?

As she was daydreaming, her shoulder slammed into something solid, nearly knocking her off her feet.

It was a house.

A massive house.

Opal rubbed her eyes as she peered up at it. It couldn’t have just sprung up out of nowhere, how had she not spotted it? The windows were pitch black, but an old, wooden door stuck out in the darkness. As she knocked on it, a gust of wind blew her against it, pushing it open slightly. Opal looked around quickly before slipping though the small space.

“Hello?” She called. “I’m looking for a place to wait out the storm. Please and thank you.”

Silence answered her as she peeked around the dusty room.

She reached into her pack and tried to light a match, but everything was soaked through. Her lantern had blown out ages ago, and it was too dark out see anything more than a few feet in front of her face. Hopefully whoever owned the place wouldn’t be too upset if she curled up on the floor for the night.

-

Ghost peeked around the doorway, but they still couldn’t believe it. Goblins weren’t supposed to be real, yet here was a little green creature right in their kitchen!

The goblin huffed in annoyance as she tried to strike up a flame. But, like everything else about her, her matches were soaked through.

She wrapped her sodden cloak around herself and huddled on the floor. Ghost couldn’t really remember what being cold felt like, but the little goblin looked miserable. Maybe there was something Ghost could do?

-

The morning was grey with clumps of snow clinging to the windows along with the rain. Opal shivered as she stretched; sleeping in her wet clothes had made her feel awful.

She looked around as she wandered slowly through the room trying to warm up. Cobwebs hung from the low beams, and copper pots and iron cauldrons were stacked all over. Opal couldn’t believe her luck when she spotted an old box of matches sitting on the end of the large kitchen table – almost like they’d almost been set out for her. If only she’d seen them last night. She looked over at the hearth. It had some old, but not terribly dusty logs stacked in the fireplace. It had been so dark last night she hadn’t even seen them.

In a few short moments, the old fireplace was crackling and glowing. Opal stood in front of it for a long time, finally starting to feel warm again.

-

There was something about the way she politely explored the house that made Ghost want to make the goblin as warm and cozy as possible. They had a plan to put out some blankets and sweaters for the little goblin to find as she tiptoed through the house, but they needed to find the best things first.

Fabric flew as they rummaged in the attic, draping things over themselves as they looked for the warmest looking things they could find.

A strangled yelp suddenly bounced around the attic and Ghost jumped, flinging blankets and clothes all over the floor. The goblin was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide as she stared at them.

“G-g-ghost!” She shrieked before turning and running down the stairs.

Ghost felt terrible. They’d been terrified when they’d seen the goblin for the first time too, and now she was running away. The wind shook the attic and Ghost panicked – that little goblin couldn’t go out in this, she’d blow away!

-

Opal huffed as she rushed towards the old oak door and heaved on it with all her might. She gritted her teeth against the frigid wind but suddenly she was knocked onto her bottom and the door slammed shut.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts. There’s no such thing as ghosts. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head for a moment before opening them. She squawked at the sight of a log floating through the air before she scrambled and grabbed for the door again. The wood clattered to the floor before the door snapped shut.

She was swept softly through the air and plopped gently into the chair she’d pulled to the fire. A cool breeze whooshed past her, and she turned to see the log lift up from the floor and fly over to the fire before letters began to slowly appear in the dust on the hearth.

“TOO COLD. PLEASE STAY.”

“Who are you?” Opal stammered.

“AM GHOST. NOT SCARY.”

“I’m Opal.”

“STAY TODAY?”

She felt the air quivering around her before she slowly nodded.

-

Ghost rushed back down the stairs loaded with blankets. It took so much longer to move through the house when they couldn’t move through walls. They hoped Opal hadn’t changed her mind and left.

They came into the kitchen and were relieved to see Opal curled up on the chair snoring softly. As gently as possible, Ghost rattled the chair. But Opal just snored louder.

Ghost finally pulled on her cloak and Opal jumped as she woke up. She pulled herself up, yawning as she let Ghost pull the cloak away.

-

Opal watched as the garment floated in the air before it was draped over a dusty chair. She felt another breeze across her face and arms, and then a quilt floated up and draped itself gently over her shoulders.

As she watched her things float around in silence, she couldn’t figure out why this ghost was being so nice to her.

“Why are you doing this?” She blurted.

The log that was now floating over to the fire stopped midair for a beat before continuing into the fire.

“YOU NOT LIKE?” The letters appeared again slowly. “GHOST NOT HELPING?”

Opal still felt suspicious.

“Why?”

“OPAL COLD. GHOST HELP.”

“But why?”

The air seemed to quiver by the fireplace before the writing continued.

“GHOST LONESOME.”

“Oh.” Opal croaked, blush creeping up on her face. The ghost was lonely and trying to be nice to the first visitor that they had in what appeared to be a very long time, given the dust that was covering everything. She felt the same breeze blow across her skin. The quilt was tightened around her, like the Ghost was tucking her into it. It had been a long time since anyone had been nice to her, and Opal felt guilty.

“Thank you.” She said to the air.

“GHOST SORRY SCARE.”

“It’s okay.”

Opal pulled the blanket tighter around herself. The fabric was old and musty - but it was better than nothing. She began to feel drowsy.

“SLEEPY?” The letters were slow on the floor.

She tried to stifle a yawn. Truth was, she was very tired. It had been a long time since she’d been anywhere warm and cozy. Even if it was just a dusty blanket on a kitchen chair.

She wiggled into the blanket as she nodded.

“SLEEP, FRIEND.”

‘Friend.’ She thought to herself as she drifted off. It sure would be nice to have a friend. Maybe Ghost would let her stay here for a little while longer?

End of Part One

I’ll be honest, I know this could use quite a bit of editing. I like it mainly because I adore the characters and the universe that I’ve built in my head. I hope to turn it into a longer story some day. Maybe I could do a serial on here? It’s more a friendship story than a romance story – would you folks be interested in something like that? Let me know in the comments.

Until next time, Romantics.

Enjoyed my dulcet tones? Tip jar here...

This weekend is Thanksgiving in Canada. It’s a hard holiday for me, for reasons I don’t currently feel the need to elaborate about on the internet. (Spoiler alert: it rhymes with ‘snow contract’ and involves my mother).

Anyway, while Thanksgiving in Canada is not quite as big of a deal as it is to my friends in the United States, it’s still a holiday to celebrate gratitude, abundance, etc. Today it’s chilly and properly October out, and I’ve been spending time with friends, my husband, and my fur baby and being grateful for all of them.

I’m taking a break from stressing out too much about getting a post up1 and instead am sharing a list of things I’m grateful for (in no particular order and with zero explanation2):

1. That time I told my coworker about how my dog farts when he barks and she called it a ‘screenshot’.

2. The ongoing, unacknowledged, years-long battle between us and our neighbours over who can shovel whose sidewalk first in the winter.

3. The fact that I have named my plants and my husband just goes along with it.

4. Sometimes my dog comes up to me and puts his head in my lap and I ask him if he needs to “be loved up” and then he nuzzles me and I give him scratches and say “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Over and over again in a silly voice and he loves it so much he almost falls over.

5. Those carpet cleaning and pavement scrubbing videos on YouTube.

6. The lamp in my kitchen.

7. How fun it is putting raspberries on my fingers and eating them off like I’m five.

8. When animals blep their little tongues out.

9. That part of Macbeth where they all sneak up to the castle holding branches in front of their faces.

10. The way the word ‘gouache’ is pronounced.

11. That I have the same weirdly wonky toe my grandpa did.

12. The idea of Gregor Mendel just being, like, fucking obsessed with peas.

13. That my husband knows I don’t like going to the grocery store so he does the shopping himself.

14. The cinematic masterpiece that is “Grease 2”.

15. Rubber boots.

16. Northern Lights.

17. The “Water Game” I play with my friends that is just us texting each other reminders to drink water.

18. Fireplaces (real and electric).

19. The fact that we (allegedly) have Ents in Lord of the Rings because Tolkien was so mad about dudes sneaking up to a castle with branches in front of their faces and not actual trees moving in Macbeth.

20. Brass animals.

21. Beeswax candles.

22. Housecoats.

23. The way that anytime I try to build anything and fuck it up my husband will very calmly fix it.

24. How much our dog loves his dad.

25. Every single one of you.

Okay, so that last one is super cheesy. But, it’s true. When I decided to launch a Substack I gave myself a goal of having 100 subscribers in a year. The fact that there’s already over sixty of you in a few short months is blowing my mind. I’m grateful for every one of you, and am so excited thinking about all of the things we get to be grateful for in the year to come.

Until next time, romantics.

I’ve tried moving my body. I’ve tried not moving my body. Eating a brownie, drinking water, eating my veggies. Cleaning until I aggravated my fatigue and made myself feel worse. Eating a(nother) brownie. I even took a vacation day to try and even myself out. Nothing was helping. No, I realized needed something else.

Which is how I found myself with hot water cascading over my head as cold orange juice ran down my fingers and chin in the dim light of my shower in the middle of the afternoon.

That’s right, Romantics. I’m talking about the Shower Orange.

Now, I in no way claim to own the idea of a shower orange. It’s been around the internet for years. Heck, there’s even reddit threads about it.

When I first heard about eating an orange in the shower, I did not understand what all the fuss was about. I mean, I’d been known to enjoy a shower beer on a hot day – but eating an orange? Could it really be as amazing as people say?

Short answer: Yes.

The warmth of a shower, coupled with the sensation of peeling an orange and eating the cold fruit, creates some type of metaphysical quasi-religious experience where shit just feels better. I don’t know why, it just does.

So, now, as I sit here, wrapped up in my housecoat and feeling drastically better, I feel the need to spread the magic of the shower orange. How does one best enjoy a shower orange? Allow me to explain.

How to Enjoy a Shower Orange:

1. You’re gonna need some oranges. Whatever type you like best is fine. Heck, try other citrus if you want – but I’ve found the orange to be best.

2. Place said oranges in the fridge. You want them to be cold before your shower.

3. Get your shower ready – whatever that looks like for you (I don’t recommend showering in complete darkness. Safety first, please). I like low light best, personally.

4. Grab your cold, cold orange and hop into your shower.

5. Peel, rip, ravage that orange – attack it like a bear, peel it thoughtfully, do whatever feels right for you.1 This is about being free and enjoying the moment. The shower orange doesn’t judge.

6. Eat said orange under the hot water, reveling in the steam and ambiance. Don’t rush, take a minute. Enjoy the sensation and smell of the citrus.

7. Rinse off the sticky juice, pile your peels together to clean up and finish your shower.

8. Wrap up in a towel and wonder why the fuck you didn’t try the shower orange sooner.

9. Feel a little bit smug.2

There you have it, friends. A weirdly random post about taking a shower and eating an orange. Sometimes self-care is weird, sometimes its the odd things that make us feel better.

I promise I’ll get some more substantial posts up soon. Unless you like this kind of randomness? Let me know.

Until next time, Romantics.

Wanna leave a tip? Click here!

I’m in a symptom flare this week and thought that it might be a topic to write about on here. Because of said flare, I had an unplanned two hour nap this afternoon. Add that to the fact that I didn’t get a whole lot of writing done this week and the result is me scrambling to write this post so I can meet the arbitrary deadline I’ve set for myself of posting every Saturday. Someday I’ll get a queue of posts in my backlog for posting, but it’s not today.

For those of you reading who might not know what I mean by a symptom flare – this is when the symptoms of a chronic illness temporarily1 worsen for a period of time. It can happen due to pretty much anything – stress, big events, weather changes, etc. While it can often be difficult to determine what might set off a flare, in this case I have a hunch that it’s the weather. I love watching the seasons change, but when the temperature switches rapidly it can be tricky to take care of myself.

Now, what does a flare feel like? Well - imagine that you’ve been sleep deprived for about a week, you wake up with a hangover and then you realize you’re starting to come down with the flu. Also, you slept funny so one side of your body is asleep.

Doesn’t that sound like fun? No? You don’t want to have to sit down after you brush your teeth? Me neither. But, here we are.

Since I didn’t want to send out a post that is essentially me just complaining and telling you about my (admittedly, fucking fantastic) nap today, I thought about sharing a poem. As I was trying to pick one, I was reminded of something I’d read forever ago about describing something or someone as looking like “the wreck of the Hesperus”, and realized that that is a perfect metaphor for feeling like shit. Tbh, I’m not sure I’m using the saying exactly as it’s intended, but I do feel like a fucking mess - so here we are.

For some reason, “Wreck of the Hesperus” is one of my favourite poems. Genuinely I don’t know what it is that makes me like so much, but despite the fact that it’s sad (spoiler alert - but, also, it’s in the fucking title, so…) it still flows beautifully to me.

WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It was the schooner Hesperus, 
      That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, 
      To bear him company. 
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
      Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
      That ope in the month of May. 
The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
      His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 
      The smoke now West, now South. 
Then up and spake an old Sailòr, 
      Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
“I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
      For I fear a hurricane. 
“Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
      And to-night no moon we see!” 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
      And a scornful laugh laughed he. 
Colder and louder blew the wind, 
      A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
      And the billows frothed like yeast. 
Down came the storm, and smote amain 
      The vessel in its strength; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 
      Then leaped her cable’s length. 
“Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, 
      And do not tremble so; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 
      That ever wind did blow.” 
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat 
      Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
      And bound her to the mast. 
“O father! I hear the church-bells ring, 
      Oh say, what may it be?” 
“’T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!” — 
      And he steered for the open sea. 
“O father! I hear the sound of guns, 
      Oh say, what may it be?” 
“Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
      In such an angry sea!” 
“O father! I see a gleaming light, 
      Oh say, what may it be?” 
But the father answered never a word, 
      A frozen corpse was he. 
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
      With his face turned to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
      On his fixed and glassy eyes. 
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 
      That savèd she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave 
      On the Lake of Galilee. 
And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
      Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
      Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe. 
And ever the fitful gusts between 
      A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 
      On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 
The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
      She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 
      Like icicles from her deck. 
She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
      Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 
      Like the horns of an angry bull. 
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
      With the masts went by the board; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
      Ho! ho! the breakers roared! 
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
      A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 
      Lashed close to a drifting mast. 
The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
      The salt tears in her eyes; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 
      On the billows fall and rise. 
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
      In the midnight and the snow! 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 
      On the reef of Norman’s Woe! 

I feel like I could do a whole other post about how we’ve all met a dude like the skipper. Overpaid man in a position of power, dismissive of everyone’s opinion except his own, doesn’t stick around to deal with the fallout of his behaviour…I mean in this case it’s ‘cause he’s dead, but the comparison still stands.

I’ve used too many ellipses in this post, and I’m not sure if my cavalier tone has been accurately conveyed, but we’ve made it. If you have any self-care flare tips, I’d love to hear them. Or poetry recommendations, I like those too.

Until next time, romantics.

On the plus side, it had the added bonus of reinvigorating me and I edited 50 pages last night. I’m actually excited to edit, which is a new feeling (I usually hate editing, it makes me want to pull my eyes out).

When I started this Substack, I mentioned part of my goal was to share my journey towards being published, and realize I’ve shared very little about my book writing process.

Since the manuscript I’ve shared with my writing partner is intended to be my first book and I will ultimately need to write a synopsis at some point, I thought I could take a stab at it here. Full disclosure: I’ve not researched what a synopsis really should look like. Obviously, I will do that when the time comes, but for now – consider this me sharing a rough draft of that with you.

Synopsis

Declan Blune had loved Sabine Beaumont since they were kids. In a world of shapeshifters and fated mates, he was convinced that they were meant for each other. She was more than his girlfriend; she was his best friend. His bear longed for the day the mate bond would snap into place.

Sabine Beaumont was an anomaly among shifters. She had felt her bear inside her, but the creature had no form; she had never shifted and nobody knew why. Her and Declan had been inseparable since they were 8 years old, and she wished on the moon and stars as often as she could that they would be True Mates.

But, that was a long time ago.

Declan still carries a picture of Sabine and him in his wallet. He’d put it in back in there the day of her funeral, eight years ago. When he inherits his grandfather’s house it’s a welcome distraction from the heartache and mess his life had become.

When he comes across an old file in a secret drawer, he’s not sure what the strange runes on a set of blueprints could mean. But, as Declan uncovers secrets and the sinister plot that deceived Sabine and placed her in grave danger, he can’t help but start to wonder – is she really gone?

Someone else seems to be wondering the same thing, and they’re hell bent on finding out.

Sabine lives a quiet life, far away from anything she ever knew. Faking her death had been an extreme risk, but after discovering that everything from her 18^th birthday had been an elaborate lie moving her towards a gruesome death, she knew she had no other option.

Leaving with little more than the clothes on her back, she’d travelled across an ocean and started over. Piece by piece, she built a life for herself. It wasn’t the life she’d dreamed of, but it was hers and no one was after her heart. Distance and time couldn’t stop her from thinking of Declan though. She knew he hated her, but she had never stopped loving him – even all those years when she thought she shouldn’t.

Can Declan find Sabine before someone else hunts her down? Can Sabine face Declan after all this time? Either way, Sabine’s heart is on the line, and someone is coming…

For the Heart of the Luna

Anyway, that’s what my book is about. There’s spicy scenes, swear words, and maybe some ancient gods and goddesses show up along the way.

Sharing this makes my story feel real, and I’m so excited to create something and share it with all of you. I’m still a while away from that - but if any of you published author folks are reading this, I’d love to hear tips and tricks on moving things forward.

Until next time, Romantics.

Click here if you want to leave a tip!

I actually hated this when I first wrote it and was convinced that the contest I’d submitted it to was going to rip it apart (like they had done my last one). Lo and behold, it placed fourth in the round. Over the years it has grown on me – and serves as a good reminder to not be so hard on myself. Sometimes things can just be sweet and nice and that’s all they need to be.

Anyway, here’s a story about a woman and her piggy bank. Until next time, Romantics1.

When Pigs Fly

“I let her watch The Six Million Dollar Man. I hope that’s alright.” Mrs. Cooper whispered as I walked in the door. Like I would say anything – she watched my daughter for free and could easily charge more renting this place to someone else.

I couldn’t really afford it at the time, but when we saw the place and Bunny had squealed with delight at a pudgy cat sitting outside of the window, I knew we were home. The small garden apartment didn’t come with any furniture, but there was no one yelling at us either. We’d moved in that same day. Bunny toddled around the garden, laughing each time she spotted the fat bumblebees dipping in and out of the flowers. It was a vast improvement over the nights we’d spent in my brother’s Datsun. Brady had been so proud of that little red truck, but he’d barely had a chance to drive it before his draft card came in.

“Oh, we had a bit of an accident with that old piggy bank of yours. My apologies.”

Mrs. Cooper didn’t wait for a response before the door clicked shut behind her.

I looked at the kitchen shelf where Pig-Pig sat. The heavy, ceramic pig that my father had brought home the day that he’d been promoted to Bank Manager was my most treasured possession. I’d even strapped him in next to Bunny the day we’d left Robert.

He was long emptied of the silver dollars that my father had dropped in over the years before he died. But, after moving in here, I had started dropping one in the rare times I could spare it. Now there was just a meager stack of coins sitting where Pig-Pig should have been. After all these years, he was just gone. My knees gave way from under me as I slid down to the floor and cried.

After a moment of silent sobbing, I looked at the trash can.

Carefully, I picked the pieces of Pig-Pig I could see out of the trash before I pulled the bag out of the bin and went out into the garden. I dumped the bag of trash onto the freezing cement patio before I crouched down and began to rifle through it.

“What are you doing?”

A pair of worn combat boots were standing on the edge of the cement. Oh Lord, I probably looked like an absolute maniac, rummaging through my garbage in the dark while still wearing my nursing uniform. My eyes travelled up from the boots, over denim clad legs, and a threadbare t-shirt before my eyes met the fierce face of my new neighbour, Nathan.

“I’m looking for something.”

“So, you spread your garbage out all over the patio? Must be pretty important then.”

I felt my face burn as I just nodded; I wouldn’t expect someone to understand.

He shoved his hands into his pockets for a moment before he turned and limped stiffly away, his boots crunching loudly on the frozen grass.

I went back to rummaging.

Suddenly, the trash in front of me was illuminated. Nathan had come back and placed a camping lantern on the patio. I could see numerous pieces of ceramic glinting in the light of it. I gasped at the sight of it before looking up at him.

“Thank you.”

Nathan awkwardly rubbed the back of his head as he stood there.

“Just drop off the lantern when you’re done with it.”

I nodded mutely.

-

Bunny was happily munching her cereal and sitting too close to the television again while I stood over the kitchen table and sipped my coffee. As I surveyed the pieces of Pig-Pig I’d managed to find the night before there was a soft knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and saw Nathan standing there.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” He looked uncomfortable as he stood in the doorway.

I picked up the lantern and held it out to him.

“I was going to drop it off later this morning. Thank you again.”

He held up his hand.

“I brought you some glue. I didn’t know if you had any.” Nathan seemed like he wanted to say something more but just stood there silently.

“Are you the loud man from last night?” Bunny’s voice interrupted the awkward silence as she wrapped her arms around my leg and peeked around to look up at Nathan.

He nodded at her, his face turning red.

“Why were you yelling?”

“Well, uh, I guess I had a bad dream.” Nathan grimaced, “I heard the crash from my place. I’m very sorry.”

“I have bad dreams sometimes. Did you have a mean daddy too?” Nathan flinched as she said it, and his eyes flicked to mine for a moment before he cleared his throat and looked at Bunny,

“No. I had a bad dream about…a place I had to stay that I didn’t like very much.”

“I knocked over Pig-Pig when you were noisy.” Bunny buried her face in my leg. “I’m sorry, Mama. I found a silver dollar and wanted to drop it in Pig-Pig like you.”

“Is that, um, Pig-Pig?” Nathan gestured to the table. “I could help fix it if you like. I used to be pretty good with my hands. I mean, I liked to build model airplanes and stuff when I was a kid.” He blushed again as he spoke.

His hands were shakier than I expected them to be, but Nathan was just as determined to fix Pig-Pig as I was.

-

Pig-Pig still sits on the kitchen shelf. He has a friend now, a model biplane Bunny and Nathan built. Nathan told me once that sometimes he feels we’re both a little bit like Pig-Pig. He’s right. When the sun shines on Pig-Pig and the cracks glint in the sunlight, I can’t help but like him better this way.

Like this? A tip would make my day!

For anyone that might not be familiar with uteruses and ovaries, the luteal phase is the phase that happens after you ovulate. Technically it’s the second part of your cycle, and it lasts all the way until your period starts.

This is also the phase where PMS ramps up. If you’re one of the approximately 8% of menstruating people in the world with PMDD1 , this is also when “The Drop” can happen.

If “The Drop” sounds like something ominous, that’s because I mean it to. For people with PMDD – this is literally when the bottom falls out from beneath us and life gets really hard. PMDD is like the angry version of PMS, and when the The Drop hits, you can literally feel like the ground gives way beneath you and you can’t help but fall.

What I mean by that, is when The Drop happens, my body and brain betray me in such a way that I’ve taken to referring to this time frame as “Demon Days.”

I feel like I’m possessed by a demonic entity that lives in my uterus and periodically gains control over me. When this happens it feels like the real me is trapped in a revolving door of stupid symptoms that come along with this phase of my cycle. Also, my cycle lines up with the actual moon cycle and that just seems like something a demon would do, tbh.

“Regular” PMS symptoms can range from cramps and sore body parts to migraines, itchy skin, and my own personal favourite – menstruation gingivitis2 . I don’t want to diminish PMS - even for people without PMDD it can be hell. Owning ovaries is fucking hard.

To recap, luteal phase PMS symptoms can include:

• Cramps

• Body pain

• Migraines

• Severe gum pain

• Nausea

• Digestive issues

With PMDD you can get all of those things, but you could also experience things like:

• Significant/extreme mood changes and irritability

• Irritation and anger

• Depression – feeling incredibly low, potentially with intrusive thoughts of self harm and/or suicide.

• Anxiety

If that sounds fucking awful, it’s because it is. I wrote the story I’ve included below shortly after I was officially diagnosed. In my case, I was extremely lucky to have a doctor that listened and helped me get the help I needed. Lots of times that isn’t the case. It’s a scary time to think that Lucy’s “diagnosis” doesn’t seem far off in certain parts of the world. It still seems taboo to talk about talk about reproductive health, but the more we speak and share, perhaps we can make it a little better and stuff like this more broadly understood.

I Can Buy Myself Flowers

Lucy stared at the worn-down sign on the door. Her cleaning lady had whispered the name of the clinic to her when she’d stumbled over Lucy crying the bathroom floor again. Now that she was here though, Lucy wasn’t sure how this dingy place could possibly help.

-

“Your husband isn’t with you?” Doctor Paloma barely looked at Lucy as he came into the room and began clacking away on an old computer.

“I was told it wasn’t required here.”

“Your file says that you’ve got a hystera- demon?” He kept typing without looking at her.

“I was hoping for a second opinion.”

“Based on the federal guidelines, the official diagnosis is a demon. I know it’s difficult to hear.”

Lucy felt her face burning as she blinked back tears. She’d driven all the way across town to this crumbling strip mall in a desperate attempt to get any type of help. This doctor had been her last hope.

“You know, the problem with standard treatment of hystera-demons is that it doesn’t consider the host.” Doctor Paloma began to write something on a prescription pad, “Demons resist prayer groups and church, and treatment is futile if the host’s wellbeing isn’t fully considered.”

Dr. Paloma handed her the slip, “My sister, Patricia, runs a florist’s shop on the edge of town. Take her that note and get yourself a bunch of ranunculi. Doctor’s orders. Tell her Paulie sent you.”

Lucy stared at the ridiculous note in her hand. His scribbles were nearly indecipherable, but she could still make out ‘Ranunculus x 20’ on the prescription pad.

At least the drive across town wouldn’t be a complete waste if she treated herself to a bouquet. Besides, this was no less absurd than when Dr. Smithfield had prescribed bible study for her cramps.

-

‘Pattie’s Petals’

The sign was faded, but cheerfully painted, and the bell tinkled cheerfully as Lucy walked in. The store was nearly empty, but the coolers were filled with the most stunning arrangements Lucy had ever seen. Maybe flowers might help her feel better? At least it might distract her from the crushing depression she could feel looming for a little while.

“Can I help you?” a statuesque woman stepped up to the counter.

“I’m wondering if Pattie is in?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that Paulie sent me.” She handed the prescription to Pattie. The shopkeeper looked at her for a long moment.

“Got a demon, do you?”

Lucy nodded, too startled by the question to to do anything else. Before she could say anything Pattie lifted the counter and gestured for Lucy to follow her.

“Come with me.”

-

Lucy thought that it was odd that a florist would let a customer into her warehouse as she followed Pattie into the back cooler. They walked to a small office, past a couple of other clerks arranging flowers.

“Twenty ranunculi, Fern.” Pattie ushered Lucy into her office before closing the door.

Lucy sat down, clutching her fingers nervously.

“You must have been pretty desperate to go to the clinic, by the looks of you.” Pattie looked at her for a long moment before she sighed and shook her head. “Right. So, hystera-demon. Or, as the rest of the world calls it, Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. Prozac is the standard treatment.” Pattie placed a gun on the table, “It should go without saying that your side of this is to keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

Lucy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as Pattie sat down across from her, trembling in her seat as she nodded.

“I was a pharmacist before the government revoked women’s credentials.” Lucy’s heart raced as Pattie handed her a small bottle of pills. “Take the first month and see how you feel, follow up with my brother and he’ll write you another prescription for more flowers. Stop by if you’re having any issues. And if you give us any trouble, I’ll kill you and make it look like an accident, alright?”

-

Back at the front of the store, Pattie rang up the prescription and handed a copy of the prescription Dr. Paloma had written.

“I hope the flowers help you feel better.” Pattie smiled as she handed Lucy a wrapped bouquet of 20 stunning ranunculus.

-

Reg had scoffed when she’d shown him the prescription, but as Lucy began to come back to life, he considered it a reasonable expense to treat the horrific demon that had taken residence inside of his wife.

If you liked hearing about the horrors of the menstrual cycle and/or my short story – consider leaving me a tip. I’m not saying it would help the demon in my uterus, but it couldn’t hurt. Thanks for reading!

Like this? Consider leaving a tip :)

p.s. if these symptoms or these stories resonated with you, please reach out to a doctor if you can. You don’t have to carry this alone. PMDD sucks, but there are things that you can do to make it a little (or in some cases a lot) better.

August was not, and is not, fall.

There, I’ve said it.

I know that’s hard for some of you to read.

It doesn’t matter that I had to turn our furnace on for a few days this month. It’s still summer. I stand by that.

I have a theory that part of the reason we’re so unhappy as a culture is our inability to handle waiting for anything. Capitalism thrives on this, and we fall for it. We can’t stop celebrating holidays sooner and sooner, chasing the thrill of event after event, instead of just taking a minute. It feels like we’re getting less and less skilled at anticipating things in general.

However, I also have to admit that my theory is heartily challenged by the fact that we are living in a world that feels like a whimpering apocalypse half of the time – so why not break out your flannel or your Halloween decorations in August if it makes you happy?

And I genuinely don’t care if someone finds joy in those things. It’s just that coming from a part of the world where Halloween could either be a lovely crisp evening, or a night of trick or treating in a costume that needed to have enough room for a snowsuit to fit underneath, I can’t help but somewhat resent the notion that we needed to talk about August like it’s fall. Let it be summer. Let October be October.

I’m not saying I’m immune to any of this, by the way. I like being prepared for holidays, I like whimsy. This post literally exists because I saw fall/Halloween decor at the hardware store and I bought it.

I can’t help it. I love a pumpkin.

They call to me, whispering sweet nothings of cute peacoats and days when I don’t have to try and discreetly aim my desk fan at my armpits after walking outside.

I saw a post online about someone making their own terra cotta looking pumpkins and had thought the idea looked fun. Also, for the last three years, every time I’ve plonked a bowl of candy out for trick or treaters, I’ve wanted to make a candy bowl that didn’t suck.

On a bit of a whim, I bought some cheap (but, honestly, less cheap than I would have preferred) pumpkins, and a cheap plastic cauldron. Because, even though its August, stores have already started putting out their Halloween decorations.

I enjoyed how both of these things turned out, so now you’re all getting a quasi-tutorial you didn’t ask for.

Enter, the autumnal craft project.

Faux Terra Cotta Pumpkins

1. Get yourself some cheap pumpkin décor. Check thrift stores if you can or check out the dollar store. We’re covering them in paint; they don’t have to be pretty. For simplicity’s sake, I would avoid anything with glitter.

2. Next, you’re going to need some paint. Something brownish red. Unless you wanted to make a concrete looking pumpkin you could get some grey paint. Pick whatever colour you want. Make a blue pumpkin. You to do. But, if you want a pumpkin that looks like pottery, stick to the brown and/or grey family. I had some leftover sample paint pots, so that’s what I used. But, any type of acrylic craft paint will do.

3. Ideally, you should also get yourself some type of skewer and stand – this is going to make painting smaller pumpkins significantly less of a pain in the ass. I’m guessing for a larger pumpkin you’re going to have to just be more careful. I chose to paint outside to avoid any paint smells, but you could easily do this inside. Put down some newspaper either way. If you do go outside, put on some fucking sunscreen and take some water with you. Don’t do what I did.

Note: I found it easier to paint a single layer without baking soda on it to get decent coverage first, but this isn’t necessary.

4. Mix some baking soda into the paint, starting with a teaspoon or so – you don’t have to measure, but start with small amounts until you find a consistency that you like. It should be a little grainy but not clumping. Fully paint your pumpkin and set it aside to dry. Try to prevent paint collecting in the grooves of the pumpkin. It doesn’t need to be perfect, but it should be somewhat smooth. You’ll want to try and paint quickly - the baking soda will make the paint dry out quicker than it normally would. Add as many layers of paint as you think you need but let the paint mostly dry between layers. After you’re happy with the paint layers, let the pumpkins fully dry. You don’t want any wet paint for this next step.

5. Take some loose baking soda and sprinkle it over the top of the pumpkin. Gently rub the baking soda over the pumpkin, adding more as you need. Give it a gentle shake and a tap, and voila.

6. You’ve got yourself a bougie pumpkin (or 4). Good for you.

After this, I moved on to painting my plastic cauldron. To dry and get the plastic to have a cast iron feel to it, I added several layers of paint, and significantly more baking soda. I applied the paint roughly, not worrying about it being as smooth as the pumpkin. Full disclosure: It was so much hotter outside than I had realized, and I hated this project by the time I finished this cauldron. But I ended up really happy with the result.

Still, the pumpkins are staying tucked away for now.

August isn’t October, after all.

Want to leave me a tip? Click here!

Thing is, before I was ever anything else, I think I might have been a poet. I’ve loved making rhymes and poems ever since I was a little kid. Growing up I used to keep a pen and paper by my bed in case I woke up in the middle of the night with an idea.

In addition to having a love of poetry, the thing that I feel incredibly important to note here is that teenage me also had zero self confidence. Did I need some guidance to maybe reach for the arts in a different way? Heck yeah. I lived in rural middle of nowhere, it’s not like there were a bunch of opportunities related to writing. But telling an earnest seventeen-year-old girl that her dreams were stupid and she’d never achieve them is not the approach I’d recommend any guidance counsellor take.

The damage that I let those two events do to my creativity was profound. Poetry was something I let go of when I left high school. A childish pursuit that was useless to keep up in the real world. People like me weren’t ever going to be real poets, what was the point?

The older I got, and the less I wrote in general – those bolts of inspiration became less and less, and I ignored them more and more until they stopped entirely. In addition to losing my myself and my writing, I lost the spark of creation that used to blindside me out of the blue at random moments. When I think back about how despondent I was about my own artwork and creation, and the years I wasted thinking I wasn’t worth it, it makes me want to cry.

I don’t know if it’s the work I’ve been doing on letting myself be more creative, or if there is a little chaos goblin inside of me that wants out, but for the last few months especially, I’ve been getting lines and rhythms stuck in my head again.

It feels like coming home in a way that I’m not sure I could express even if I were the most talented poet on the planet. I know not every poem I write is profound, or maybe even necessarily good.

But, can I tell you a secret?

I don’t think poetry should always be good.

Humanity and life itself are often ridiculous and ugly. I think when we share ourselves in prose, sometimes it needs to be ugly. Sometimes it needs to be rough and nonsensical. Sometimes poems need to be ridiculous.

I shared this poem in my notes earlier this week when I had first written it, but the more I think about it, the more I wanted to give it its own post. It’s not the best piece I’ve ever written. To be honest, it needs some reworking, and it lacks a title at the moment. Still, I thought it perfectly captured how poetry can be simple and sweet and still make us feel something we can’t always put our finger on.

A poem is cooking

It is a Monday

A Monday of the soul

I don’t know exactly what that means…

-

See, there are two dragons inside of me:

One survives on coffee

The other on tea

Both of them hate the feel of business casual clothing

It is a Monday

A Monday of the soul

A poem is cooking

And I feel

-

Invisible

Like poetry flows through everything

Like water

Ephemeral

Empty

Impatient but exhausted

Stuck between two worlds

-

See, there are two dragons inside of me:

Both are tired of a life of polyester pants

Of fluorescent lights and office sycophants

It is a Monday

A Monday of the soul

A poem is cooking

It feels so good to feel the heartbeats of poems in my bones again.

Also, fuck that guidance counsellor.

Click if you want to leave me a tip :)

Overall, it’s been kind of a weird week. Monday, I had a migraine interlude. If you’ve read my post about the chronicles of chemical sensitivity – you might remember that when I’m exposed to certain chemicals, I get miserably sick. Most of Monday was (unsuccessfully) spent trying not to puke and feeling sorry for myself. On Wednesday I posted a story I’m working on to another website and it’s something I feel is coming along really well; but my work has had very little engagement for the third month in a row, and it feels a bit discouraging. On Thursday I submitted a short story to literary magazine that I really would love to be featured in. I’ve never been featured in anything before and I’m mentally prepared for rejection, but I don’t like how often I’ve been checking the submission status and fixating on it.

I’m learning that sometimes posting your own writing can feel a little bit like dumping into an apathetic void, or like you’re not making progress on your actual writing practice or working towards your goals at all.

But on Tuesday I had a bank appointment to set up my business accounts for Asterism Media. I felt so self conscious telling the small business associate that I was a writer and content creator. I resisted the urge to downplay it and just owned it. I practically squirmed in my chair when I decided to be honest and say that I write romance and fantasy novels.

I had a moment signing the paperwork where I’d said, “This is exciting”, and then was instantly hit with a wall of self doubt and fear so strong it almost knocked me out of my chair. Immediately my brain was shouting horrible things at me about failing and making mistakes and how stupid I was for doing all of this.

It also immediately started to diminish what I’ve been doing. “They would give anyone a trade name, Ursula.”, “They would give anyone a bank account and a company credit card.” And, my inner critic’s personal favourite recurring line, “If you’re doing it, it must not be special or hard.” The urge to just quit and give up felt practically suffocating.

And what was the small business associate at the bank doing while I was having this moderate existential crisis?

She was busy being so fucking excited to hear about my writing and business goals. When she brought in her coworker to finish the file she went, “Guess what she does? She’s a writer!”

When her coworker heard that I wrote romance novels she gasped and did one of those happy chair dances. They were both so excited and supportive that I almost got choked up.

I know we’re supposed to write for ourselves and not be worried about making things that other people will like – but jeebus, did I need to see that. There was not an ounce of “really?” or shades of doubt. I’ve found that sometimes people get a certain face when you say that you write romance novels, not unlike the face one might make if you had shit directly into their open palm. All there was in that bank was unabashed support. And, yes, I was a customer at a bank and it’s literally their job to be polite. But it felt genuine - and amazing. At some point in the future there will absolutely be a wonderful set of characters in one of my stories named after them.

I guess the thing I need to (repeatedly) remind myself is that lots of people don’t even get this far. Lots of them don’t even try. If you had told me 10, heck, even 5 years ago that I would have just set up my own business and have written three manuscripts and entered multiple writing contests – that I would have started my own newsletter and not given up after a week? Oof. I would have been so excited. I don’t think past me would have been capable of realizing that I’d gotten those things because I was doing the hard work that came along with them.

If you’re thinking that’s a lot of back and forth on whether or not I believe in myself and what I’m doing, you’re right. Lots of ups and downs this week. However, ultimately, since I want to be a successful writer, I’m going to keep acting like one – even when my inner critic successfully makes me feel like crap every now and again.

In that vein – here’s my very first article with a tip button. If this resonated with you and you want to contribute to my journal money fund, or my upcoming trip to London with one of my besties, click on that pretty button below.

Send me a tip :)

It reminded me of my first short story contest. I’d been assigned to write a 1000-word spy story involving waking up in a fighter jet and a rubber band. I was nervous, fighting with writer’s block and fretting over the plot – until finally an idea struck that made me smile. An unfortunate archaeologist taking something he shouldn’t have. I loved it. The world came to life in my head, and I sent it out into the universe with a smile.

You can probably guess what happened next.

My beloved first attempt at a short story didn’t place. And the judges that read it were – let’s say less than ‘muted’ in their response. While they liked the idea of parts of it, mostly they just didn’t get what I was trying to do. One commented on the absurdity and unlikelihood of the events. Another on the fact that I’d spelled the word “Interpol” with the incorrect capitalization. And, finally, one seemed to find it unacceptable that I had not provided more background information on the villains of the story.

Now, to be clear, part of my goal with entering writing contests at that point in time was specifically to get used to receiving criticism and feedback. That didn’t mean it didn’t suck. I had worked so hard, put myself out into the world, and people just didn’t ‘get’ it. It wasn’t the kind of feedback I had expected – mostly because it just felt, well, stupid. Did I score less because of messing up an acronym? Because something that was supposed to be silly and unrealistic was silly and unrealistic? I sulked for a couple of days before reading it again. I expected to see all of the wrong things they didn’t like shouting at me from the page.

Spoiler alert: I still loved my story.

The archaeologist, the background, the silliness. It still made me smile. And I learned the hard lesson about being a creative. Sometimes you can make something you really like, and other people won’t like it. The awesome part of that lesson? You realize that it doesn’t really matter all that much, so long as you like what you’ve created. I feel like there’s probably a life lesson in that about how we can show up in the world as humans too.

At any rate, here’s the story where I “vacillated too erratically” and justified my logline the wrong way…

Out of Egypt

“Professor? Professor, do you copy?” The distinctive voice of my assistant, Tahar, was unmistakable.

“Uh, yes?” My vision swam in front of me.

“Thank God for that.” Tahar sounded relieved. “Thought I’d lost you there.”

“You did for a minute, I think.” I could hear my voice shaking as a wave of nausea hit. I started to retch in my helmet.

“Try not to barf, please, sir.”

“Okay. I mean, um, copy that.” I groaned as I tried to keep myself from gagging again.

“You still with me back there?”

“Yes.” I managed to mumble.

“Shit. Hang on!”

The jet pitched suddenly to the right and my vision swam again. I became vaguely aware of the sound of screaming as the jet rolled. To my embarrassment, I realized, the voice I had heard was my own.

“Good God, man.” Tahar’s voice filled my helmet. “People on the ground can probably hear you.”

“What in the hell is going on?” There was no disguising the panic in my voice.

The last thing I remembered before waking up in this cockpit was sitting down for my evening cup of tea…with Tahar.

“Wait. Did you drug me?” I asked incredulously. “Are you some kind of spy?” I was beginning to hyperventilate. What had I gotten myself into?

“Sir. Will you please calm down?”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I could feel myself becoming hysterical, “I just woke up in a fighter jet after being drugged by my assistant!”

The jet pitched again, and something knocked against my leg. What in the world?

I picked up a roll of paper. Oh, good lord.

“Tahar, are these what I think they are?”

“The scrolls. Yes.” Tahar answered me distractedly.

“You wrapped a four-thousand-year-old set of scrolls with a rubber band!” I shook my head, “You really are the worst assistant I’ve ever had.”

“Hey.” Tahar cut in, “I could have just shot you instead, you know? That’s what I was told to do.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“I’m asking myself the very same question at the moment.”

Tahar sighed.

“Listen. I like you, Professor. I don’t know how you ended up mixed up with SAIMOS, but I want to help you.”

“Sy-moss? Wait, like the terrorist group?” My throat went dry. “There must be some mistake. What does a terrorist group have to do with Ancient Egypt?”

“Oh, please.” Tahar snorted, “SAIMOS is everywhere, Professor.”

“Okay then, why would SAIMOS be interested in me, anyway?”

I toyed with the rubber band on the scrolls in my hand. These were priceless artefacts. I should have turned them over to the government the moment I’d discovered them.

“Listen, Interpol doesn’t just assign operatives to random archaeologists in the middle of the desert.” He continued, “But they would keep an eye on someone if they discovered their work was being funded by an international terrorist group.”

The jet pitched again, and finally levelled out.

“SAIMOS wants those scrolls, Professor. This kind of find could fund their efforts for decades. The question that Interpol and the Egyptian government have for you is, did you intend to give it to them?”

I hate this. Even though he routinely messed up my archives and his understanding of the Lower Kingdom and their funerary rites was terrible, Tahar was a good boy. He always got my tea right and took the time to ask about my day. I couldn’t remember the last time that I’d been around anyone that had gone out of their way to care about me. He didn’t deserve to be tied up in this.

I had a choice to make.

“Tahar.” I said hesitantly. “Do you know why you were told to kill me?”

I ran my fingers over my bicep, where I knew the faint scar of the implant would be.

They had first approached me in London. The research I’d spent the last fifteen years curating had just been shelved, supposedly to avoid additional bureaucratic arguments between the United Kingdom and Egypt. It was a convenient excuse for the university’s director to be rid of me when my wife left me for her.

The chance to be in the sand in Saqqara was offered, and it had felt like a godsend. An escape from the crushing depression that consumed my days. The implant had been non-negotiable. An additional stop in Madrid on the way to Cairo. It felt like such a small price to pay at the time.

My instructions were simple. I’d sent text updates to the numbers that were mailed to me on postcards each week. Leads on digs, projects losing funding. Nothing that felt like it was of consequence. Still, it was exciting. I felt like a spy from one of those drugstore novels I used to devour as a kid. I spent most of my time digging in the sand and searching for artefacts. It was the happiest I had ever been.

I felt so stupid.

“A biometric tracker.” I sighed. “GPS. Heart rate. Blood markers.”

Tahar swore loudly and I flinched.

“I think.” I spoke hesitantly, “that whatever you gave me would have been displayed in their tracking. So, perhaps they think you actually did kidnap me?” I licked my lips, “and they must really want these scrolls, otherwise they would have taken us down by now.”

Tahar didn’t answer me. Maybe he realized I was right. Maybe I could make things right.

“I’m sorry. I promise I will cooperate with the investigation.” I hung my head in shame.

Tahar let out a long and exasperated breath.

“Dammit. I liked you, Professor. I really did.”

The tingling in my arm was almost instantaneous. The pain that hit my chest next was crushing. I choked for air as stars flashed behind my eyelids.

“You could have retired in the Mediterranean.” Tahar clicked his tongue. “Instead - electronically induced cardiac arrest.”

I felt the scrolls roll out of my hand as my vision faded.

“Tahar?” I gasped.

“SAIMOS is everywhere, Professor.”

-

Now, if you thought that was a fun story – awesome! If you thought I should have tried harder to “always incorporate visual descriptions of characters and sounds and sights of your settings.” Then that’s awesome too – and there’s a writing contest judge out there somewhere that you should probably have coffee with. Either way – I still like it. And that’s the whole point.

I think this article is for me than anything else. Which probably isn’t how you should start something you want people to read and connect with.

When I envisioned my Substack, I wanted to have a weekly post. That hasn’t been happening. I kept putting off writing something this week and have been beating myself up about not doing what I told myself I would do.

While it is technically Sunday, and therefore a new week, I figure it’s better late than never. In the spirit of being consistent and not getting stuck in perfectionism - I’ve written a summary of all of the things I did this week instead of writing a better article. In no particular order:

Went to a Reformer Pilates class. It was empty so I pretended I was having a private class.

Drew a picture of a dragon on my lunch break. I am working on an art piece I will share when it’s finished. I am very excited about it.

Patched my moderately expensive parka that my dog tore within a week of purchasing (almost three years ago).

Upcycled envelopes for some snail mail I am determined to get better at sending.

Tried to bath aforementioned coat destroying dog. He immediately rolled on the ground after and is now dirtier than he was before.

I guess the point of all of this is to say that sometimes if you want to get better at something you just have to keep showing up. Even when it’s kinda crappy.

So, my wish for you is that you show up for yourself this week. Find joy in the little things, and do something that makes your heart happy.

For the record, I don’t recommend the chasing of a 160 dog around your backyard with a soapy washcloth.

To be honest, much like the way my mother responded to the chain letter someone tried to give me in 1993, “We’re not going to be doing that.”

However, I was nominated nonetheless by Rachael and Tom and I like both of them. I know Rachael outside of Substack and she’s a good egg with an interesting Substack who is definitely going to be a published author someday. While Tom and I only know each other from interactions on Substack, my expert assessment is that he also seems like a good egg with a great page that is also going to do great things. I especially recommend the serial he’s working on about a racoon named Ketchup.

You should absolutely check both of them out at the links above.

I’m not going to tag anyone else in this, partially because I’m feeling lazy and partly because it feels like a chain mail thing - but I will answer their questions and invite you lovely people to answer some questions about yourselves in the comments. I’d love to know more about anyone that takes the time to read anything I write.

Rachael’s Questions:

If you were given 100 million dollars, but you had to spend all of it within 24 hours or it would, idk, evaporate or something (meaning you can’t just invest or hoard it), what would you do with it?

My answer to this question is boring and nerdy. I would go nuts with real estate development. The reason for this is that if I snap up large swaths of land, or access prime real estate I can do two things. A) I can stop people that want to plunder natural resources (you want condos, now it’s a bird sanctuary), and B) I could create opportunities for sustainable housing and community development….I’ve thought about this one. A lot.

Favorite book you have read so far this calendar year, and why.

I’m cheating a little here, because I read some of these books in 2024 – but I’m going to recommend a series called Evershift Haven by Aurelia Skye . They’re a series of novella length cozy monster romance books that were light, fluffy, and cute. Highly recommend if you need an escape.

What does your writing routine look like? E.g. wordcount per day/week? Or what time of day you tend to get most of your writing done?

I don’t force myself to typically hit a daily word count unless I’m participating in a challenge or something to that effect. Right now, I find that I get a lot of my first draft type writing done during my lunch breaks at work. I take a half hour to disconnect and eat, and then spend the other 30 minutes writing on my phone at my desk.

If you could invent a holiday (for the real world or for one of your fictional worlds), what would it celebrate and how?

In one of the stories I’ve written, the FMC lives in a world with multiple gods, including the goddess, Nature. Nature falls asleep in the fall, and during the longest night of the year, there is a festival that celebrates her sleep and calls for her to wake up and teach what she has learned in her dreams. They light large bonfires to send her a blessing and then call for her to wake up with pipes and drums through the night.

The winter solstice is my favourite time of the year, and I fill it with soft ritual whenever I can. The festival in my story is a homage to that.

Fairies, mermaids, or vampires, and why?

Given that I have been asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like The Little Mermaid?” on more than one occasion you would think it would be mermaids. But, it’s got to be fairies. I think the variety and history of mythology around them is fascinating. Plus, as a kid I was bullied for wanting to be Tinkerbell when we played Peter Pan at school and I’m owning it now. Take that, B.

Where were you and/or what were you doing when you first got the idea for your current WIP?

Oh gosh, lord only knows. I get random ideas all of the time. Lots of my ideas tend to start in the back of my head as I’m trying to fall asleep. Sometimes I’ll start texting a friend something as a joke and it will turn into more. Like how the story I started one night about a witch with a cold ass has turned into a full-length series of manuscripts and is my favourite thing I’ve ever written.

Best fictional villain, and why.

Oooh, this one had me thinking. If we’re talking about just the one that I like the most – I have to say Lady Macbeth. If we’re talking about awful fucking people – Dr. Frankenstein. Talk about avoiding the consequences of your own behaviour.

One absolutely true thing that happened to you as a kid that sounds like a lie.

I once single handedly won a volleyball game 15-0 because my serve was so slow that nobody on the other team tried to hit the ball. I am not sporty now and was even less sporty then. It’s been over 20 years and I’m still not sure how it happened.

If you could star in a reality tv show, what would it be called, and what would it be about?

It would be called something like “The Great Artist” and it would be a competition style show that follows a bunch of people that have to complete “The Artist’s Way”, but in a Big Brother style house. The catch is that they are really competing against themselves and not each other. I’d be the host and wear lots of overalls and give pep talks.

What is something, either about your own life or about the world at large, that you wish more people understood and/or offered more empathy or support for?

I think, by and large, the world just needs more empathy.

One of the things that sticks out to me the most is that I wish more people understood the importance of living wages. We’ve created a divide where we expect people to serve us, clean for us, stock our grocery stores, care for children, etc. but we don’t welcome them being paid to a degree that they can afford to live. In my day job, I work a lot with information about salaries and wages. I’m pretty good about shaking off the annoying parts of my job, but the thing that breaks my heart is when I interact with people in positions of power who devalue people and their work in positions they feel are less than them.

What is something you have accomplished within the past 5-ish years that you are incredibly proud of and probably don’t brag about enough?

I’ve written four manuscripts and have put myself out in writing contests consistently since 2020. Prior to that, the last time I’d shared my work was in high school (which was more than a little while ago). I need to edit said manuscripts and take myself to the next level. Just a few short years ago I would have been staring out the window and wishing I was a writer, and now I consider myself to be one. I should be prouder of myself for that.

Tom’s Questions:

What book character do you most relate to? And which character do you most aspire to be? If they’re the same, congratulations on the high self-esteem. I will also accept real life, historical figures if non-fiction is your game.

I’ve always related to Amy March. When I was a kid, in the demographic that typically first discovers Little Women, it was obviously Jo that we were supposed to aspire to. She yearned and wept for her art, which is romantic and beautiful. Amy was the villain, the foil to Jo’s dreamy, aching artist demeanor.

But Amy was an artist too. She unabashedly knew what she wanted in life, and we were supposed to hate her for it. I could write a whole essay on why I love Amy – and why (spoiler alert) Laurie didn’t “settle” for her but grew up to be the right man for her.

What is your best quality as an author—the hands down, slam dunk skill or attribute that makes you really tick. Conversely, what do you wish you were better at?

This was a really hard question for me. Maybe it’s an oversimplification, but I’m a good storyteller. I love weaving in the pieces of a story that make people go “oh, of course” when they finish something I’ve read.

I wish I was better at dialogue. It flows in my head, but I feel like I have to massage the structure a lot when I edit.

What was your high school experience like, and how has it influenced your writing? I ask as a man who spent most of his teenage years reading fantasy novels alone at the lunch table and not talking to girls. I may not have gotten any dates, but I did complete the first four Game of Thrones books well before the TV show came out.

My dude. High school was the fucking worst. Actually anything past kindergarten was kind of shitty. I grew up in a very small, very sporty town. I was shy, bookish, and bullied to the point that I developed pretty significant body dysmorphia. I remember writing in my journal at 15 that if I was never going to be pretty, I could at least be funny.

The silver lining to that thinking is that I poured my energy into being funny and smart. I devoured media, and it freed me from being worried about what some Axe body spray obsessed farm boy might have been thinking about my looks.

What did you want to be when you grew up? If your answer is writer, why? If your answer isn’t writer, then when and how did you discover your love of the craft?

The first thing I remember wanting to be was an astronaut. I thought that if I was an astronaut that I would be able to figure out time travel, and as a child this was inexplicably important to me. I wholeheartedly believed I could unlock the science behind it and held onto this belief for an embarrassingly long time. I blame Star Trek.

I wrote my first story when I was maybe 8? I realized that I loved poetry when I was 11 and it became a dream to be a creative shortly after that.

What is the single worst piece of advice you’ve ever gotten? The kind that makes you shake your head and clench your fists when you think about it.

“You can’t make a living as a poet.”

This was courtesy of my high school guidance counsellor. It’s a story for another day, but basically it set me on a course where I ended up picking my postsecondary program by opening up a college guide and sticking my finger on a random page. Don’t do that.

How do you think generative AI is changing (or will change) creative writing? Will it purely be for the worse?

I think it would be foolish to say that generative AI isn’t changing creative writing. AI is going to keep growing and learning and becoming more and more terrifying. I don’t want to be negative and say there’s no way it could be anything positive – but I can’t see what that positivity might be. As someone that oftentimes feels more spiritually connected with the universe when I’m in a flow state, it feels perverse and hollow to picture a world where we replace that in any meaningful way with a machine that is not only environmentally destructive but also cannot be filled with any of the wonder, longing, or love that makes us human.

What book are you most jealous of? Namely, which book do you most wish you had written yourself?

If there is a book that I wish I’d written myself - I wish I’d written the Harry Potter books. Not because I think it’s the most beautiful thing ever written, or because I’m jealous of JK, but because it breaks my heart that something that was a source of comfort and connection for so many people has been tainted and damaged by its creator. I’m sure it’s egotistical to think that way – I know I’m far from perfect, but the thing I strive to be more than anything else in the world is kind. And being so bold in your disdain for how other humans live inside of their own bodies is not kind. So, yeah, I wish I’d written it and kept its legacy and all of it’s fans a little safer.

It felt like I should have some type of heading here…

If you made it this far, maybe stop and have a juice box and do some eye exercises. That was a workout. Thanks for hanging out. I love that you did, but I’m worried about eye strain from staring at a screen.

If you feel so inclined, I’d love for folks to answer these questions – one of them, or all of them. You do you. Or if there’s a question above you want to talk about - answer that too. I’m just glad you’re here.

1. What’s something you think you’d be good at, but you have literally no basis of fact to support this?

For example, I am convinced that I would be so good at biathlon. I don’t cross country ski or shoot, but I am weirdly confident I’d be a natural.

2. What was the last thing that gave you goosebumps?

3. What’s your favourite item of clothing? Is it something you’ve had forever or something relatively new?

I’m excited to see what folks share. Thanks again for reading!