Lucky Seven-- Ages of Lilith

Who slays my children? He thundered, his wrath buffeting me like a mighty wind. His face was fined down to skin and beautifully sculpted bone, but he had only one baleful violet eye and it was fixed on me with singular purpose. Fear froze me, but the swarm answered.
ZHEHURTZZUZZ! They chorused. He crouched and gathered a handful of the scattered husks. Tears fell from his eye as freely as the socket on the other side spilled maggots.
Oh, my small brave ones, what has happened to you?

Lucky Seven -- Caught Napping

Early exposure to the exotic dancers and burlesque performers that his mother worked with had certainly given him an appreciation for a gilded lily but she was something else, a pitcher plant maybe. Carnivorous plants made for a fascinating study, but it always struck him that the difference between a venus fly trap and a pitcher plant was a matter of intent; the flytrap was actively a killer. Sonia was arguably more passive about it. She was also way too smart for her own good. His too, come to that.

Lucky Seven -- Chrome Dragon

“I hate you,” she told him.
“Yes, I know. But I content myself that I will survive without your regard. It may be difficult, I may experience the occasional pang, but I will muddle through.”
“I'll give you pangs,“ she promised hoarsely.
“Now, now. Wait to kill me until you're feeling better. Drink.”
So she drank and gagged and glared so menacingly that Jahi laughed until tears ran down his face.

Wordle interpretation of Someisa's first scene

'Feed' by Mira Grant

Georgia (call me George) Mason and her brother are bloggers who bring the world news from the zombie-occupied fringe. They’re on the cusp between medium fry and large when opportunity knocks: they and their partner Buffy get invited into the press corps of a United States senator who’s running for President. Bloggers. In the press corps.

Zombies seem to be stalking the senator. In fact, if Georgia didn’t know better, she’d say the undead seem to have a clear agenda when it comes to this presidential race. Since that’s not possible, it’s got to be a conspiracy, one she and Shawn must race to unravel. They believe in two things: truth and each other. And the truth will get them killed.

***** ***** ***** *****

This book just broke my heart. Interestingly enough, in the last month of a very long year, it’s also the best book I’ve read in that year. Bar none.

I don’t regret it. No part of me wishes that I’d ignored that oh-so-tantalizing review, or resisted the dark amusement brought on by the word and image play that is the cover. I don’t even blame the author. She knew her characters better than I did, she was there when they were born. They lived in her head and her house and her peripheral vision for months if not years. I’m also sure she knows the rules of zombie stories as well as I do: if you don’t lose people along the way, it’s not much of an exemplar for the genre, is it? She did what she had to do.

Even better, she didn’t flinch. The characters that needed to died. Some died incredibly well despite wretched circumstances. I cried. A lot. I hate it but I did it anyway. I don’t regret that either.

There’s something that I do to double check a book that just blows me away. I strip out whatever whizzbangy gimmick, whatever shiny special FX, informs the story and I look again. Is there anything left?

If the answer’s no, then the glitter dazzled me, which is hardly surprising. I’m something of a magpie and have a weakness for sparkly things. It doesn’t make me dislike the story but I give it less of my heart once I can see through the illusion that made the magic.

Every so often though, the answer is yes. Yes. There’s a meticulously detailed slice of altered reality under all that shine. Characters with faults and fears and heart. Lord love us all, a genuine plot. You scrub the zombies from this book and it’s a beautifully crafted story about truth and love, fear and politics, free speech and betrayal. You’ll fall in love with the people there and you won’t count the cost because they deserve to be known and loved.

Read it.

Alphabet for Perverts

A is for anal, a pain in the ass

B is for blowjob, as given by Cass


C is for cock, as in pecker or willy

D is for daisy chain, lascivious and silly


E is for erogenous-- those zones that are tender

F is for fetish-- as in gender and bender


G is for g spot, the fountain of Ruth

H is for hardcore, often sold in a booth


I is for intercourse, what more can I say?

J is for jacking or jilling all day


K is for kink-- mine ain't weirder than yours

L is for labia, barely covered by drawers


M is for masochist, who enjoys the whip

N is for naked (read bare-assed) or nip


O is for orgy, for those who like groups

P is for penis-- when it tires it droops


Q is for quaint, the cunt of it's time

R is for roger, but not Hammerstein


S is for sadist, he who hurts you with leather

T is for tribbing, we can rub ours together


U is for union, the best ones take skill

V is for voyeur, Tom's getting a thrill


W is for wet dream, an emission of cream

X is for XTC, it ain't all a dream


Y is for yiffing for those who like fur

Z is for zazzle, you're lusting for her

Pudding

Reality is a lot like pudding.

You scoff but just wait. I’ll lay it out for you.

See, reality, like pudding, comes in a wide variety of flavors, textures, colors and, Lord knows, packaging. A lot of folks take the easy route and buy that shit in the little plastic tubs that may or may not have sugar or genuine flavor. It’s easy, it requires no real effort on their part, and it’s cheap. This is the equivalent of predigested reality, one formed entirely by the media: movies, television, video games. It’s pasteurized and homogenized and you don’t have to think, you just have to swallow. This is not your grandma’s pudding, this is the pablum of the damned.

There’s also the stuff that starts in a box as a powder. It does take a little bit of elbow grease. Some of it requires cooking, some says ‘instant’ but we all know instant is never as instant as it implies. At the near end of the spectrum, you might have to wait a whole 5 minutes before you’re supposed to eat it, unless you prefer to suck yours through a straw. There are grainy bits, the consistency resembles a loose slurry of sugar, cream of wheat and gravy. We’ll call this one consensual reality, which is to say everyone agrees that while it could be better, it could be a hell of a lot worse. But the important part is they are still thinking about it.

Now my particular reality is old-school pudding, the kind you make from scratch with whole milk on a stove top. The kind that forms a skin as it cools. And it occurs to me that there are two, possibly three, generations now who have no idea what I’m talking about. “Pudding has SKIN?!?” they gasp in horror. Yes Virginia, it does and it is magically delicious. Be grateful your pores exude sweat and musk instead of sweet milky goodness because I would turn cannibal in a red hot second if it did. That stuff is ambrosia.

But I digress.

See, that skin is not only extremely tasty, it also does one thing very, very well. It makes a clear boundary between me and all you other yahoos. It lets me think my own thoughts, form my own conclusions. It isn’t pasteurized, it doesn’t have to conform. Every batch of my pudding is unique. It’s informed by my experience in making other tasty puddings, by my familiarity with the vagaries of my stove, and by my occasional forays into the spice rack. But there’s a trick to it. It requires patience, persistence--there is a LOT of stirring involved in pudding--, and active thinking because, well, cooking just does.

So this is reality, people. What kind are you going to choose?