Bronwyn Green

The Corner of Quirky & Kinky

I put this post together a while ago, but in light of recent events, I needed to update it a bit. Here are a few things that make me think “love” when I see them. Breaking the rules, as usual, with a few captions.

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This picture from one of my brother’s wedding. I love everything about this. It was one of the most joyful events I’ve ever experienced.

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One of my amazing nieces and my equally amazing daughter. I love how much they love each other.

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Sister love – Morrighan and Willow.

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Also sister love – Cait (the Goblin King) and me.

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Just a few of my freaking AMAZING friends who I love to pieces. I’m so incredibly lucky.

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This is Corwin’s stuffed animal, Captain Kitty. As you can see, he’s been loved, almost to death. Captain Kitty has been around since Corwin’s first Christmas, and yeah, he’s looking a little worn (Jenny Trout would say “murderous” and “creepy”) but he’s still very much loved. This is what he looked like forever ago.

Corwin and Captain Kitty and Killian and KittyBestFriend

See? Not quite so rough. But still loved.

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Sibling love – hanging out under the Darth Vader umbrella.

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No, we don’t always wear dorky, matching clothes – but it was our anniversary. So we nerded it up a bit.

Some of the subway art posted in NYC after the election.

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That’s it for me this week, be sure to check out the other bloggers’ posts.

Gwen * Kellie * Paige * Deelylah * Kris

Promptly Penned

Prompt:

Person A: She smiled a little. “You’re a manipulator.”
Person B: “I like to think of myself as an outcome engineer.”

This is going to be a short one this week. I’m too far behind with everything I need to finish by the end of the week.

 

Byron sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “I don’t know… It just seems like you don’t care.”

“I’m confused.” Candice uncrossed and recrossed her legs. She didn’t want her boss to think she was fidgeting, but she had no idea what he was talking about, and she was tired of being called in there to discuss vagaries.  “What does it seem like I don’t care about?”

He shook his head, mouth turned down. “Your job. Your co-workers. The company. Me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “I’ve been here past midnight every night this week trying to get this project finished. Everyone else is out of here by six-thirty at the latest. And I’m back in by seven am. How does that seem like I don’t care?”

He folded his hands in front of him. “Look, you’re still relatively new here.”

Addie nodded and waited for him to continue while anxiety dampened her palms.

“And I know you want to make a good impression, but there are some people on the team who are feeling a little threatened by the number of hours you’re putting in and how much of the work is being logged from your account.”

Her brow furrowed. “Sooooo…you want me to put in fewer hours and just not worry about whether or not the project is complete by the deadline?”

“You’re not listening.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I–”

He cut her off. “Look, I know you don’t intend to come off like you are.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Glory hound. Brown noser.” He ticked off the jabs on his fingers. “You have a savior complex.”

She just stared at him. Did people even use brown noser any more?

“I know this sort of thing is hard to hear–which is why I wanted to pull you aside and discuss it with you privately.”

“If I’m not supposed to put in extra work, I’m not sure the project will be finished in time for the client.”

“I want to help you, Addie. I want to see you do well here.”

Unease slithered through her, but she waited for him to say more.

“I’d like to propose an idea that might help.”

She continued to wait, muscles tensed.

“You continue to keep whatever hours you need to keep to finish on schedule.”

“Okaaaay.”

“But use my login profile.”

A quiet alarm bell began clanging in the back of her mind. “So, then all my work will be attributed to you, then?”

For the briefest moment, his mask of concern slipped and she glimpsed the flat, hard anger in his eyes. And just as quickly, it vanished and he was smiling. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll attribute credit where it’s due.”

The tension seeped out of her limbs and she settled back in her chair. “Then why not just let me continue as I have been?”

“I’m not sure why you can’t understand how much this will lower tension in the office.”

“You mean lower your tension because you’ll be getting credit for my work.” She smiled a little. “You’re a manipulator.”

He was quiet for a minute, then finally said, “I like to think of myself as an outcome engineer.”

“I see.” She stood up. “Well, good luck with your outcome.”

He looked puzzled. “Where are you going?”

“It’s wine o’clock. I’m going home.”

 

That’s it from me, today. Be sure to check out Deelylah, Paige, and Kris‘ stories.

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It’s time for another photo flash fic.

I don’t know why I thought going home wouldn’t affect me. I guess, when it comes right down to it, it was pride. I suppose I hadn’t considered what it would be like to view the place through someone else’s eyes.

I watched Eric take it in. From the wood-sided dilapidated farm house that was now more dry rot than paint to the oxidized tin roof, to the old, orange Allis Chalmers tractor, to the corrugated metal shed that doubled as a chicken coop…until the foxes had figured figured out the chickens were there.

He took a step forward then stopped at the sound of a crunch beneath his expensively-clad foot. I knew what he’d see before he picked up his foot. “Is that a…”

“An old chicken bone. Yeah.”

He swallowed thickly then gestured toward the house. “Did you want to…”

Eric was normally decisive, commanding. I couldn’t ever remember seeing him this unsure. It made the blur of the last few days seem that much more dreamlike–unreal in a way that I felt that if I avoided going inside, I could pretend that none of it was actually happening. The house would still smell like stale cigarette smoke and Canadian Mist, and a ballgame would be playing through the tinny-sounding speakers of an old radio that barely picked up a signal this far from town. And the Tigers would be about to throw away the lead with the bases loaded.

I shook my head. “Not right now.”

Kicking off my stupid heels, I walked toward the overgrown field that lay beyond the gravel driveway, the sharp stones cutting into my perfectly pedicured feet. Once upon a time, I’d been able to run across the stones with bare feet and barely feel anything. The skin on my feet had been far thicker than that on my heart. Now, it was the other way around.

“Ashley,” Eric called. But I didn’t answer.

The field was a bit of a relief for my tender feet, but the dried blades of long grass scratched at my bare calves and snagged at the delicate fabric of my skirt. This field should have been hayed weeks ago. I’d need to mention that to–  I’d need to mention that to someone. I wasn’t sure who, but I’d figure it out.

As I got closer to the treeline, my steps slowed. Something about the delineation between earth and sky just looked…wrong. Panic bloomed in my chest like flowers with petals sharp enough to draw blood. But I couldn’t quiet the building anxiety any more than I could slow my gait. Finally, I stumbled to a stop as my brain began to make sense of what I was seeing.

The old oak–the one I’d climbed constantly as a kid, the one with the thick armed branch that had held the swing my dad made me, and later, the treehouse we’d built together–had been completely uprooted. Probably with the last bout of straight line winds that had torn up the area. I needed to let my dad know. Maybe if we got the tractor running we could wrap a chain around the trunk and get it upright. Try to rebury the roots. We’d have to borrow a field irrigator from a neighbor to get enough moisture into the to the ground and the root system, but maybe the oak could be saved.

I took a breath and turned to holler for my dad. I saw Eric, carefully picking his way toward me in his somber charcoal suit, and everything came rushing back. The phonecalls. The police. The funeral home. Buying my dad the only suit he’d ever had, other than the one he’d worn when my parents had married. The service.

I looked back to the tree and dropped to my knees, heedless of the field stones I’d hit on the way down. I stared at the dirt clumped roots as my throat thickened and my eyes burned. The tears I hadn’t been able to cry streamed down my face, and I realized that no amount of chains or tractors or moisture would change anything. The tree and my dad were both gone.

Okay…so this uplifting bit of fluff is all I’ve got going on today.  Um…let’s go see if Deelylah’s is more cheerful.

It’s getting to be that time of year. The shopping/hardcore crafting time of year. I anticipate that I’ll be knitting, sewing, and cross stitching like a mad fiend any moment now. And I’ll also start bugging my kids and nieces and nephews for gift ideas.

But these are a few of the things on my wishlists.

I really want this nose ring. I want it a lot.

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And speaking of rings, I’d also like these two, please. My birthstone and a faery. What could be better?

I’m not a huge fan of Mason jar crafts, but this light is spectacular and would look amazing in my house.

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This tea mug was clearly made for me.

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This bracelet is faboo.

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I love this shirt.

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I have this in ebook, but I really, really want it in print.

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Be sure to check out Deelylah’s wish list, too!

Some background on  this text you’re about to see:  My family’s nickname for me is T-Rex because my arms are short and I can’t reach shit. In fact, when I need something on an upper shelf, I yell, “T-Rex needs help!” and someone who’s taller than me needs to come reach stuff down for me.

My brother, Martin, delights in sending me T-Rex related memes and buying me T-Tex related t-shirts or building Lego T-Rexes and naming them after me. (Please see exhibits a and B, below.)

 

Today, he sent me this text that I immediately relayed to my sister, Cait. I thought I’d share Martin’s text and Cait’s response.

Jerks.

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There are sooooooooooo many tropes I loathe (quite a few I love, too) but it’s all about the ranty loathing today. I’m gonna break it down by genre. Well, that’s a lie. I’m gonna break it down by the genres that I write because otherwise, I’ll literally be here all night.

Romance

  • All Women Are Competition – I’m putting this in romance, but honestly, it appears in about every kind of fiction, but it’s huge in romance, erotic romance, and YA, and I am sick to fuck of it.  I really hate when other women exist in stories as tools to show the reader how much better the heroine is than the hero’s ex, or his secretary, or a romantic rival. These other women are usually portrayed as conniving, grasping, hateful bitches who are in competition for the hero’s affection.
  • You’re Not Like Other Girls – This trope also belongs in erotic romance and YA, too. This is meant to show the reader the same thing as All Women Are Competition – just what a special fucking snowflake the heroine is. We get it. She’s your heroine and she’s awesome. We want to like her, too. But there’s something that’s a little disconcerting about a hero evangelizing about the heroine (silently, because he’s an alphahole who doesn’t share his feels) in a way that disses all other women (basically rates them as substandard) in order to reinforce how super-shiny-special the heroine is.
  • Instalove – To be fair, this is another one that could have gone into YA or ER. It’s also pretty self-explanatory. I just don’t buy a Happily Ever After after characters have only known one another for three days.

Erotic Romance

  • It’s Fine for the Heroine to Have All the Sex Ever Because Soon it Will Be Love but Any Other Woman Who Does That is a Slut – Okay, so this one is a bit of a mouthful as far as tropes go, but I fucking hate hypocrisy like this so much! How does that even work? Especially in the erotic romance genre? It’s the sister trope of All Women Are Competition and You’re Not Like Other Girls. But it reinforces that not only is the heroine super special, but the laws of nature (or the laws of the novels where this trope appears) don’t apply to her. And also, she’s winning ALL the competitions that theses other women didn’t even know they were part of.
  • Alphaholes – I’m really not a fan of the darkity-dark-dark-dark hero who’s basically a giant bag of dicks. They’re emotionally unavailable, arrogant, ruthless, cruel, jealous as fuck, creepily controlling, and often stalk the heroine, yet, the heroine can’t help but be attracted to these gems. They can be billionaires or bikers – sometimes even both at the same time.
  • Magic Peen/Magic Vag – Either the hero or heroine is super emotionally fucked up by some past trauma, but by the end of the book, they’ve been made emotionally whole again by the power of the peen (or vag). The sex cured them.  (OMG – random side note: Remember the old He-Man cartoon? He-Man would whip out his little dagger and holler “By the power of Greyskull!” and his dagger would grow into a sword. Now, every time I come across the magic peen trope, I’m gonna be thinking of He-Man. This is not going to end well for me, friends.)
  • Billionaires – So often, the billionaire trope ends up reading more like money porn to me. So far, there’s been one exception to this rule for me, and that’s been Neil Elwood. I’m sure there are probably others, but I’m so turned off by the trope that I’d be unlikely to pick them up without a strong recommendation from someone I trust.
  • Instantaneous Orgasms Over Virtually Nothing – Sexual arousal is a powerful, powerful thing. Also? It’s a pretty good time. It has a lot to recommend it, really. However, when the heroine orgasms over the barest sexual touch, it doesn’t read realistically. Perhaps, there’s a person out there who can come because someone stroked their arm. Perhaps, you’re that person. However, most of the populace isn’t that person. Most of the populace is going to look at the Instaorgasm, roll their eyes and mutter, “For fucking real?!”

Young Adult

  • Magical Girl – In paranormal YAs, the heroine is rarely an average girl who gets caught up in extraordinary events. She’s usually secretly (unbeknownst to her) a witch, a fairy/faery, a vampire, an angel, a demon, a weresomething, a vampire slayer, etc. and the story is all about how she was really special all along.
  • Love Triangles  – Nope. I feel like the main reason this exists is to show the reader that even though the heroine thinks she’s nothing specials/not pretty or popular or whatever enough, she really is because OMGTWOBOYSWANTHER. How about we just, I dunno, explore this character’s worth in ways that don’t rely on whether or not she’s found desirable by boys?

Okay, so, I know there are a ton more, but these are the ones I’m unloading on today, because it’s nearly 9pm and I have a ton of things left to do in my bullet journal for the day. I’m sure we’ll revisit this topic another time, and I’ll have more tropes to bitch about, but in the meanwhile, how about you share some of your most loathed tropes with me. What really gets your undies in a twist?

In the meanwhile, be sure to check out Torrance and Deelylah’s posts, too!

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I confess, I’ve never been big into games. I mean, I do enjoy a rousing game of Cards Against Humanity, and back in the day I loved me some D&D, but for the most part, games aren’t really my thing. But, when you have visitation with your dad every other weekend and that involves going to your grandma’s where your family members all take naps after lunch while seasonal sportsball blares from the TV and you and your brother are the only kids, you learn to play games. These are a few I didn’t mind playing and others I resented the fuck out of.

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Here are the games I resented the fuck out of.

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I will forever hate this game. I loathe this game.

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Fuck this game, too.

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And fuck these little long-armed bastards with their judgey faces.

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And really fuck this game. Literally the most boring game ever. And if we played Star Wars we had to play this one, too. Because “fair is fair and you have to share”.

So, what were some of your favorite games? More importantly (to me, anyway), what games did you despise? Be sure to check out Deelylah and Jess‘ posts.

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This month’s song fic is inspired by the Sarah McLachlan song, Sweet Surrender. Here are the lyrics and the video, if you want to have a looksee.

 

You know how sometimes you fall asleep and when you wake up, you’re so cold you feel like you’ll never get warm again?

That’s exactly how it was–except, you know, worse. Mostly because I woke up completely naked. No underwear to my name. None that I could lay hands on anyway. And when I tried to sit up, I smacked my head on something–something metal from the sounds of it. Not only was I cold, but now my head hurt, and it was dark. The kind of dark that seemed like it would swallow even the brightest of lights.

I felt around, looking for anything. My phone. A flashlight. A blanket. Christ it was freezing, and wherever I touched felt like brushed steel. Fucking cold brushed steel. This had to be some bullshit hazing. I told Brently, I didn’t want to rush TKE. But that asshole never did listen and signed us both up, anyway. He’d get his, though. I’d make sure of it.

Rolling to my stomach, I pushed up to my hands and knees. My back immediately hit more freezing metal, and everything in my gut seemed to shift. It was a lot like the sensation in your gut as you go over the first hill of a roller coaster, but…looser, somehow. Almost as if things weren’t quite as solid in there as they used to be.

I tried to make out where I was. I knew the TKEs had a creepy basement until the rundown Victorian near campus they called home, but I didn’t think they had any spaces like this. But, I supposed they wouldn’t exactly be advertising that to pledges.

I banged on the metal floor next to my knee. “All right, quit fucking around and let me out, already!”

At least, that’s what I tried to yell. What came out sounded more like a moan. And a garbled moan, at that. Goddamnit, had they put ketimine or some shit in the vodka? Was that what was going on? I was going to fucking end people when I got out of here. Whenever this bullshit was over, there had better be a goddamn feast waiting for me because I just realized I was starving. I was suddenly so ravenously hungry, it felt like my stomach was devouring itself and everything around it.

“I said let me out!”

I brought my hand to my throat. It didn’t really feel swollen. Whatever was in my system was still fucking with my ability to speak. As I brought my hand down, it brushed across a weird rough patch on my chest. Was that what a tattoo felt like? My mom was going to kill me if I came home for break with a tattoo.

I banged on the floor again, and finally, I heard a noise that wasn’t just me. It sounded like a metallic clank and a seal being opened. Bright light flooded the space where they’d kept me. It was as small as it felt. I blinked and let my eyes adjust to the light.

“What the fuck is the matter with you assholes?” I tried to say that. Not sure if that’s what they heard, though.

A guy near the back of the group screamed and ran.

Brently, that asshat, was the closest. I glared at him. Fucker looked like he’d been crying. I could only hope he’d woken up in a cold as fuck room, totally nude.

“TJ?” he asked, stepping closer. “Is that you?”

He reached out a hand toward me, and I’d never smelled anything better in my life. I grabbed his arm and bit down on his wrist as hard as I could, tearing his flesh with my teeth. I groaned. Better than a perfectly cooked steak.

He screamed and tried to get away, but I pulled him closer and sank my teeth into his neck, his hot blood running down my chin and chest warming me, at least a little. By the time I felt somewhat sated, everyone else had vanished, and I hopped down and headed for the door. All I left behind me was a cold room.*

*Sorry, Sarah…

Check out the other flash fiction pieces. I’m gonna go ahead and guess that they’re a little less gruesome. Here’s Deelylah’s and here’s Norris’.

Promptly Penned

Prompt:

Use the first line of a nursery rhyme as the first line of a dark narrative.

Side note before I begin this prompt. I was researching nursery rhymes and realized that most of them are plenty dark on their own without my help. Like Goosey, Goosey Gander is apparently about killing Catholic priests who were in hiding when they refused to convert, at Henry VIII’s insistence, to the Church of England.  Also, I recognized a vast majority of the nursery rhymes (including Goosey, Goosey Gander) from my own childhood. And my mom wonders why my short fiction tends to be on the darker side. Gee, mom…I can’t imagine why. I wonder why on earth that would be. *gives her the side-eye*

Okay, so here’s the story. (You’re welcome, mom.)

“Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,”

The sounds of children’s voices echoed through the valley–high and sweet, lilting through the chilly autumn air. Girls and boys rose from their beds or left their evening chores, shambling dazedly out into the dusty road, and turned toward the emerald green hill rising in the distance. They dragged hobbyhorses and poppets behind them as their song carried hauntingly across the land.

“To see a fine lady upon a white horse.”

The children plodded forward, eyes fixed unseeingly on some the middle distance, unaware or uncaring as their parents called to them, their cries becoming increasingly more desperate. Pitious. Attempts to tug or carry the young back into the houses failed. Even the smallest of the small were able to pull free of their parents’ frenzied grasp. They stood watching, shivering in the cold, their breath puffs of steam. The children didn’t shiver. Nor did their breath cloud the air.

“With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,”

Every house in the village stood empty of children, save those too young to climb from their cradles. But they sang their own mournful song, longing to join their sisters and brothers as they marched onward toward the green hill in the distance. The hill they’d been warned away from time and time again. The hill where none of the village folk would tread. The hill, it was whispered, would swallow a person whole. Perhaps none in recent memory, but it had happened, and so the warning remained.

“She shall have music wherever she goes.”

Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles followed behind, weeping  and helpless beneath the purple dusk that crept across the sky. At the head of the procession, I looked back at my new charges from atop my snow colored steed and smiled. Turning in my saddle, accompanied by the delicate jingling of bells, I led the children forward as twilight cloaked the land drawn toward the hill by the scent of sweetmeats and warm puddings, fruits and ale cakes.

Whispering the spell to lift the glamour, the side of the hill opened, spilling golden light on the ground, forming a pathway to lead the children forward.  Raucous music drifted out into the gloaming, the rhythm twining around the procession and urging it closer. As the music took hold, the lethargy that had claimed the children lifted and they began to dance as they made their way into realm beneath the hill, heedless of the cries of their parents. Centuries have passed since we’ve had fresh blood.

Be sure you check out the other bloggers’ stories. Deelylah and Jessica.