Garden of Abaddon



Your bones are graceless

the light has gone from your eyes

your soul has since fled

the rotting husk you live in


Let me free you

from your tomb here on Earth

I’ll craft you a new one


where you belong

I’ll bury you deep

I’ll leave you to sleep



and scream



The Garden of  Abaddon.



 Is for Descent into the Under World





Milo The Muse Has A Rough Day At Work

House of The Muse

Flight of Imagination


This was a room where writers become writers!

The room is big, but not overwhelmingly so,

soft lighting shines from heavy brass lamps and in the center of the room

a beautiful desk stocked with pens and paper.

I walk to the desk, sit down and take up a pen.

” What are you doing?” Milo hisses in my ear.

 ” I am having a flight of imagination. I flew in on a winged horse and I came upon this beautiful room in this beautiful room lit by moonlight and starlight too.”

Milo spins the chair I’m sitting in around, leans over and pushes his nose into my face.

” Have you been drinking?”

I jab my finger into his chest and push him back.

” I have not.”

” Really? Because you sound like it. And where are we? Jesus, have you broken into somebody’s house? Is that what you’ve done? Get up. My God. You’ve gone over the edge this time.”

” I am seeking inspiration.”

” That’s my job.”

” You are not inspiring. You are …high maintenance.”

” And you could be arrested. You could go to jail. Now will you get up?”

” I heard the Marquis De Sade wrote his best work in prison.”

” The..who you say? Will you get out of the chair before…”

Something is outside the closed door. We could feel it listening to us.

” Oh no. You silly woman. Where are we?”

” Don’t know. I was supposed to close my eyes and fly and here I am.”

” You can’t do that. You know what happens to it when you lose focus. Your imagination acts like it should be in a mental ward somewhere.

” Everybody does this.” I inform him.

” Oh. Sure. Everybody like the …” Milo slams his hand over his mouth. He takes it away and hisses

” What have you done?”

The door knob starts to turn.

” Get us out of here. And by the way. If you ask that- whatever is on the other side of the door where your charm bracelet is, I’m going to rip your lungs out. And then we’ll see how much writing you get in IF YOU CAN’T BREATHE!”

I watch the door swing open and I look at Milo.

” I don’t know what to do.”

Milo spins me around and I’m facing the desk.

“Shut up and start writing.”


:::Milo The Muse:::

The Sad Tale of Milo The Muse

Milo The Muse Muses In A Big Way



House of The Muse



Just as I was about to embark on one writing adventure I was sidetracked on another all together.

I set it up, printed out some hard copies to go over before I began to write and what happens?

I keep visiting The House of the Muse page at the Soul Food Cafe.

So, guess what. I’m going to work with my Muse who I have a sort of hate/hate relationship with. The thing of it is, I named him Milo and he turned out to be a fun read at a few posts already, so I’m dragging him along on this adventure and see what happens.

With that the adventures begin on Sunday.



The Pen And The Crowbar


Looking under rocks for ideas


This is just a little story about a woman named Mared Berger and her quest to find the perfect story that would make her the perfect writer.

Mared had attended workshops about writing, she took class, after class after workshop.

Through this all Mared couldn’t come up with a story- unless the story was about Mared paying a lot of money to ask permission to write. Come to think about it that IS a story but Mared didn’t see it that way.

Tonight we find Mared was at a Writer’s Retreat  that is held every second Tuesday of the month in a little cottage with a herb garden in the back and a rose garden in the front that was currently under siege by dozens of little garden gnomes.

The inside of the cottage had been gutted and in its place were smooth cold plaster walls, softly by electric candles and tiny Tiffany lamps on little tables with lion’s feet.

The furniture was wicker and all of it was white.

In front of propane fireplace with a painting of a flower opened wide to the sun above it the writers in Mared’s group  shared stories about their journey.

How hard it was to find a meaningful story, one worth of being told.

Mared was of the opinion that anyone could come up with a story, but there was a lot of poorly written stories  out there polluting the human mind- and her sister workshoppers agreed.

So after a few hours of sharing their views and eating pounds of cheese and chocolate and drinking wine and bottled water the workshoppers called it a night.

Mared felt very confident on her drive home that she had inspired herself and others with her views and she just felt it in her bones- she had really connected with her inner writer that night.

It was almost dark when Mared pulled up into her driveway but her security lights dutifully popped on and as she gathered her things together from the seat next to her she looked out the passenger window and saw her neighbor struggling with something in the bed of her truck.

Inez Malak was one of those neighbors everyone saw and nobody knew. She kept to herself.

” Good evening Inez.” Mared trilled across the yard to Inez who was now standing in the bed of her truck.

Inez was snapped a bungee cord off of whatever it was attached to and she tossed it to her side.

” Hey there Mared.”

” How was your evening?”

Inez answered almost mechanically, ” I spent most of it in customs and do you think anyone helped me load this son of a bitch into my truck? Hell no. Bastards. I should have left it there. It’d have served them right.”

” Well. That’s a shame. People do lack courtesy and empathy now days. It’s a disgrace how we have all become our own little islands.”

Whatever was in Inez’s truck shifted and she stumbled and caught herself before she fell out.

” Yeah. No kidding Mared.” Inez straightened herself upright and kicked whatever was in the truck with her hard. ” It’s a disgrace alright.”

Inez reached down and lifted up a crow bar.

” I have to get this out of my truck and into my house before it gets dark.”

” It’s supposed to rain too.”

” Super.” Inez sighed.

” Well. Goodnight Inez.”

” Yeah. Night Mared.” Inez waved the crow bar at her .

That’s when Mared saw the bite marks on Inez’s arm, her black eye and it looked like a clump of hair had been pulled out of her head just above her ear which looked swollen and was turning purple.

” I hope you get whatever that is in before the storm hits.” Mared looked up at the black clouds that were sweeping in overhead and she held her notebooks to her chest.

Inez closed her eyes and when she opened them a second later Mared was walking into her house and wishing her a good night.

Inez shook her head,  leaned over and got busy prying nails out of the crate in her truck. When she was done she pried the lid off and looked down into the painted face on a mummy’s sarcophagus.

” Try any more like you did at the loading dock and I’ll rip your name off this thing and tear your face off. Got it?”

Inez hopped out of her truck, slammed the tailgate shut,  got into the cab and backed her truck into her garage.

The garage door whispered shut as she killed her engine and next door Mared was busy preparing herself a cup of tea and wondering where on earth she was ever going to find that perfect story, that one story worth being told.


Finley McKay’s Gate

:::Alluvial Mine:::


The Personality of A Front Door

74f1f1aec503d76fd64ed227dc5394f6.jpgFinley McKay waits on the other side of her splintered, warped and weather-beaten gate.

 The world rushes by Finley, her gate and her home every minute of everyday on a well traveled road lined with trees and traffic lights.

Yet somehow it happens that nobody notices Finley’s gate, or Finley or her deep dark eyes that watch everything but see nothing.


I could tell you that once upon a time a curious woman named Finley McKay did something dark and evil behind that gate, but that would not be true.

I could say something wicked and restless roams Finley’s gardens or wanders through her home, opening and closing doors but that’s not true either.


The air in Finley’s home is old and stale. Nothing has moved in her home for years- even the dust in Finley’s home is lifeless and quiet.

Just like Finley herself.

When she wanders through her garden or her home and makes her way to the gate she moves as quiet as a shadow.

She almost looks like a shadow.

Or maybe the light pulls back from Finley and her emptiness and the darkness seeks her out and clings to her, just like the dust.


Sometimes Finley sleeps, but even when she closes her eyes she can still see the world beyond her gate.

She can see the road, the trees lining the sidewalks, she sees  people on bikes, cats sunning themselves in green yards an squirrels stealing seed from bird feeders.

So Finley gets up from her rest, she wanders to her gate she puts her hand on the latch and she tries to lift it.

And then she draws her hand back.

” It’s not for you Finley Mckay” she says in a voice that sounds like dried autumn leaves being crunched underfoot.

She steps back from her gate, her face a stone mask, her heart silent in her chest, her hands as cold and stiff as the day the funeral director placed them on her chest.

She would like to open her eyes, to see the world once again to lift the latch on her gate and walk to the corner where the park is and sit in the sun or the moonlight and feel the air alive and moving on her skin again.


Maybe we could do it together.

We could go to where Finley is, we could open the gate and let her out.

She could walk with us.