Saturday Night Silliness -- Random Musings of a Writer Lady and Her Cat.

* This story is not for children.   *I have never been nor will I ever be a spy but I sure do have fun writing about them. “Kill him.” Scotch instructed. She looked at the man as he lay on his own study floor—choking, gasping for air, foaming at the mouth. “He’s dying.” Pen countered. “Slowly. Too slowly.” He said. “Finish him. Now .” Scotch pulled out a knife and waited for Pen to take it from his hand. Pen looked at him, then her victim choking on the floor. A sound of footsteps echoed through the mansion’s foyer and stopped on the other side of the study door. “Gregory?” A voice called. “Are you in there darling? I have to something to show you.” They heard the sound of bags rustling. “It’s in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.” The footsteps faded as the woman on the other side of the door headed to her bedroom. This time Scotch mouthed the words. “Do it.” “This is ridiculous.” Pen said as she took the knife from Scotch’s gloved hand. “He’s dy-ing.” Sh

Definitions of ourselves and who we are can be difficult to accept. It can be a challenge to change the way in which we look at ourselves that, from my understanding, has to do with the human ego. My relationship with writing has been an interesting one so far. One of my greatest challenges has been with that pesky ego and how I look at myself.    I look at myself as a writer. Just a writer. A plain old warm beverage on a rainy day, just as comfortable as your favorite blue jeans or pajamas writer. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I know I can do. It’s what feels good to me. My mother is an author. Being an intelligent woman, she likes to discuss things. Sometimes, I do too. Today, we got into a conversation about how being a writer has become more challenging in recent years, especially with the explosion of voices on social media. We discussed various aspects of it. I shared how I felt like I was stuck in some awkward in between stage with my work.

When Ian and I come into the house after an early morning tour of the farm, we find Detective Farina sitting at the dining table. He’s still in his pajamas and his head is resting on the table. A mug of coffee sits on the table next to his head and is cooling by the second. I’m not going to say anything. Luckily, Ian does it for me. I am returning to the kitchen after washing up to make breakfast just as Ian sits down next to the detective with his own steaming mug. He studies the detective’s unmoving form, “I think that you’ve finally done it Lassie.” “What?” “Wore the poor lad out.” “Impossible.” I watch out of the corner of my eye as my father puts his head on the table to study Farina even more closely. “The unruly hair, the red eyes, the drooling, the vacant expression...all marks of carnal overload.” “Like I said. Impossible. We went to bed early.” Ian begins to say something. “And went to sleep.” “No, no. Detective Farina

“My room?” Tinkletoes asks. “Everyone has a space.” “Let’s take a look.” He says as he crosses to the metal door and opens it. Inside is a standard military issue cot and a standing locker with a pair of full length doors. Maps and diagrams of some of Tinkletoes’ light saber designs line the walls. There is a clock running in military time and a shadow box displaying the history of hand grenades with bullets lining the outside edge. The self-proclaimed mercenary takes a few steps, stops in front of the locker and opens the door. Half of it stores back up t-shirts and sets of camos. The other side holds light saber parts, tools, and weapons storage. “Well...what do you think?” House asks. “Everything looks orderly. Plenty of supplies. I like the grenade bin. Nice work.” “Of course.” House says. “Lay down on the cot.” “Where are my hilts?” “Safe. Lay down on the cot.” “I came here for my hilts.” Tinkletoes counters. “You’ll get them. Lay down first.” A growl em

In spite of Heather being fashionably challenged when it comes to attending concerts in pubs and Detective Farina’s intense love for my new dress, we make it to The Three Hounds in plenty of time to get good seats. Okay, Detective Jillian arrived early to see her friends. She had already taken custody of a table close to the stage on our behalf. But, thanks to me, Heather is more appropriately dressed in skinny jeans (hers) and a Rolling Stones t-shirt (mine). I tried to get her to kick her make-up up a notch. Okay...Alice Cooper eyes. When I showed her what I would be using on her face she announced that if she agreed to it her esthetician would never forgive her and could dump her altogether. Apparently, it has taken her forever to find the right one. They put goop on your face and take it off again. How hard can it be to find someone capable of doing that? Detective Farina on the other hand, pouted. I’m not kidding. He pouted when he saw that I had replaced my new dres