“I Want To Look Pretty”



Well, sometimes something happens and you just have to write about it.


While talking to A this morning she mentioned our youngest had told her he wanted something from Santa…

He wants makeup and lipstick. 

When asked why, he responded he “wanted to look pretty.”

I’ll admit I was surprised, but really, what I could I say? 

We’re not sure where this idea came from.. television maybe? Not that it really matters, he’s five and looking for ways to express himself and if this is one of them, then so be it. I guess why this was such a surprise is because he hasn’t expressed an interest in anything like this before. He identifies as a boy and prefers typical male things. Any thing you might think of as being for girls has not been of interest. Again, I am not saying this to reenforce the fact he is male, just explaining why this seemed to come out of nowhere…

Now to our response.


A and I are both agreed we are going to find some age appropriate things for Santa to bring, such as lip gloss. Not sure about actual makeup though unless we can find something from Dora or Disney. Really I’m not sure what is available.

On another note, he came to us at supper time tonight having just done his nails…. with marker, red, green, and blue… again he says it’s because he wants to look pretty… Thankfully they were washable because he got the color all over his fingers, I could just imagine if it had been a Sharpie. 

Of course there is no of telling if this is just a passing phase or something more, only time will tell. Again, not that it matters to us, we are going to love and support him regardless. 

My only concern is knowing from personal experience how hard people can be against those they view as different. If this is what it takes for him to be happy in this life then I will be there at his side to support him. 


This of course leads me to wonder if I did the same at his age, and if I did, what was the response from my own parents? I don’t know if I did or not, my memories don’t back that far, but I can guarantee they didn’t accept or support such behavior. I am not going to make the same mistakes they did. I am not going to be responsible for this child growing up with the issues I did because not only did I not get support but was actively deterred from being who I was. 

Work In Progress Update



I am continuing to work on “Rayou”, adding bits and pieces as they come. I have the names of most of the major characters, various locations where the story will take place, and I am combing through Google Images looking for more inspiration. 

I have written several small bits of scenes to be fleshed out later, but I also have two that, while no where near finished, I feel are far enough along to give some hint of the style of the story. As I said in the first post though, one I am not comfortable sharing as I know it might be a trigger for people… maybe after more work I will share that, but I do have something I can put out there for you to read and comment on.

I am working helter skelter, writing out this and that as the scenes come to mind with no preconceived plans on where they fit into the story, I am naming each one separately. They are named to give a quick, simple way to remember the basic idea of what they are about.

I have found, for me, letting my mind jump around like this is working the best. When I try and force myself to work rigidly from point A to point B I loose focus and thus the thread of thought I am following. Going about things in a free form type of way allows the freedom to go with whatever comes to mind while following the over all theme I am aiming for.

So with no further ado, here is the scene named “Mirror”.


Erin sat on the bed, looking around the room, with its blue walls and white ceiling. The pictures of airplanes and automobiles, pictures she had drawn, not because she liked planes or cars but because she loved the precision they represented. The stark lines and graceful curves.

Then there was the furniture, the bed itself, small but functional, with its bookshelf headboard where she kept her favorite books; The Hunger Games, The Book Thief, A Wrinkle In Time, and others. There was also her memory box; a small thing made of cardboard printed to look like wood. It contained a few small items she knew her parents would expect, a baseball card, her “favorite” Hot Wheels car, a key she had found at the park. Things that really meant nothing to her but kept her true secrets safe.

From there her eyes swept to the dresser. An oversized monstrosity that hunched against the wall and seemed to glower at her. Her parents had found it at an estate sale and refinished it for her room. She hated it. She hated the masculine lines, all square and hard. She hated the color, a gloss black her Father told her made it look Japanese, but really made it look like a coffin. Most of all she hated the huge mirror that towered upward until it seemed to touch the ceiling. The mirror that held within it her greatest fears. In that wall of glass she could see what the world saw. A truth she could not deny even though it was all a lie. Looking at it, it was all she could do not to smash it with her fists, screaming curses at the gods or fate or whatever it was that had made her the way she was. That had, with cruel indifference, ensured her a life not of happiness, but of damnation. 


A Beginning

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Here is the beginning of a story idea that I am working on. I honestly don’t know if this is going to go anywhere or not. I have had so much trouble writing anything longer than a poem for months.

The working title is “The Pillars of Heaven” and will be a science fiction gender bender.

Behind her the Towers blazed in the morning sunlight, a pure white that seared the eyes and cast refections in all directions reducing shadows to the consistency of smoke, Erin turned and walked away from the camp, moving toward the one usable building that was all that was left of a once vast complex.

What it had been used for was anyones guess, though most assumed it was part of some temple dedicated to a god they had yet to uncover. She wasn’t so sure though, it didn’t have the feeling she had gotten from other ancient temples like those in Egypt or Greece. This felt more like the seedy back allies of a port like Naples or New York. There was a dirty, gritty feeling to the buildings even though she could see that the walls were once the same brilliant white material as the Tower. 

That stuff was a mystery as well, it didn’t seem to be stone and it wasn’t metal though it had properties of both and it had come back as an organic compound. Of course she only knew that much from overhearing two of the lab techs talking in baffled whispers that weren’t as low as they thought. As much as she heard about security, these people couldn’t keep themselves from talking if there was more than one and sometimes not even then. Just yesterday she was bemused to watch a scientist wander by talking to himself. Had she wanted to she could have shadowed him all over the camp listening to every word and he never would have been the wiser.

She made her way through the ruins to what was jokingly called “the Outhouse”, it was a circular building and one of the few places that some how managed to keep its roof. Inside were “stalls”, little alcoves that looked remarkably like a port-a-potty that was missing the front.  No one could come up with an idea of what it might have been other then a toilet facility, and hearing running water from some where below only reinforced the idea.

Story Introduction

Girl On Bench

For my new story I am using the working title of “Just A Girl”. I have no idea what the final title might be at this point, I think that like many of my poems it will tell me its name when the time is right.

I have written the following as an introduction:

“The dream was always the same. He was walking in a park, the sun shining down from a clear Summer sky. He couldn’t recall ever seeing this place anywhere but this dream, yet it seemed he had spent many afternoons here.

He made his way toward a tree, taller than any of those around, with a wide spread of branches whose shade seemed to go on forever. Underneath was a bench, set almost against a trunk that he knew he couldn’t reach all the way around.

A girl sat on the bench, legs drawn up, head resting against arms that were crossed on her knees. He could hear her softly sobbing

Usually he would wake up at this point, always wondering what her name was, wondering what could have made her cry.

This time though things were different, the dream continued on for a moment longer. A moment when the girl, seeming to sense that someone was watching her, looked up. A moment in which their eyes locked and Aaron found himself looking into his own face.

It was just a brief glimpse, then surprise, shock, and fear engulfed him.”

Feel free to give your thoughts, impressions, and feelings in the comments. Everything is welcome!