Saturday, March 30, 2013


With each incarnation
of every dream
the blood comes in rivers,
snaking down the inside of her thighs.  
The only towel I have is threadbare and raveling;
the vultures are circling her eyes.  

"This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 words including an idiom somewhere within." 

Tuesday, March 26, 2013


Have you ever seen kudzu? It is one of those things, like fried chicken gizzards sold at gas stations, that are uniquely southern.  It’s a plant, a HORRIBLY invasive one.  It grows everywhere.  Covers everything.  On the outside, it looks like a thick green blanket laid over the land.  But if you’re a little girl tromping barefoot and waist-deep through that blanket, you cannot help but see the truth- it’s not a blanket laid gently on top of anything.  It is a living organism with deep roots, not one, not two, but millions of these deep roots and vines and legs and arms, tangled and wrapped, strangling and eating the life out of everything beneath it.  It cannot be killed unless everything it touches is killed, too.  It cannot be removed or redirected, and you certainly cannot reason with it.  

I have lots of memories.  I’d stare out the car window on the way to church, trying to guess what lay beneath the kudzu based on the shape it took.  Sometimes, you could see rusting farm equipment or rotting wood peeking out from the blanket, other times there were only shapes, big squares for old houses, tall columns for trees.  I would plod through the woods with myself and my shadow, thinking I'd march fearlessly into the kudzu and find a treasure.  There must be treasures under all of that, right?  I was certain that if I looked long enough, I would find a treasure.   Once, I found a stack of old porn mags.  That was my first introduction to “pregnancy porn.”  Yeah, there is such a thing.  I thought it was hilarious.  Sad thing is, some of those chicks were actually pretty hot.  I never showed anyone my porn stash.  For all I know, it’s still there.  The goddamned kudzu is so thick, I really wonder how much rain gets to the ground. 

If someone died there, and the kudzu ate the body, no one would ever find it.  And no one would ever look.   

I wrote a story once.  Or started it.  When I was a kid.  I don’t really remember what it was ultimately supposed to be about, but it began with two people cutting a path through kudzu.  My feeling memory- you know, when you remember feelings but not visions or sounds- tells me that it was probably the typical “knight on a quest” and “lost maiden in the forest” story, the two people.  Again, I was just a kid, and my imagination only stretched as far as my own stunted experiences.  I don’t know where they came from or where they were going, or whether one of them was damaged in some way, or if one of them had unfounded fears or terrifying dreams or inexcusable failings, or whether one of them was a savior or muse or love or dream of another.  All I know is that the two were cutting a path.  The man would pull ahead alone, and the girl would catch up. He’d ask her to wait, but she never would.  He’s tell her to stay put, but she would not.  Other times, she would walk ahead of him, searching for a path that branched off the one they were beating.  On either side she would look, dragging her hand along the branches and leaves and vines of kudzu, feeling for a passage wide enough.   I never finished it because my English teacher told me it was boring.  And she was probably right.   Sometimes I wonder if I should finish that story.  Would I still search obstinately for a path through the impassable?  Would there still remain in me that sense of immediacy in the face of the inevitable?  Perhaps there is a story to be told about those who never find what they are looking for.  A story found in the journey alone, with no tightly woven ending or comfortable ever after.   I’m pretty sure it’s that immediacy that drives my motivations.  So many times, I believe (incorrectly so) that the story is not in the journey, but in the ending.  And if I already know the ending, why waste so much time on the journey?  When the ending does not happen, or does not happen in the way I think it should, that is when the panic rises.  The kudzu wraps around my ankles and legs and knees and thighs.  And no matter how much I rip it away, there remains no path for me to find, nor treasures, not even my porn stash.  

It is a storyteller's obstacle.  My son blames it on our inherent cynicism.  "We are realists," he says to me.  "And for realists, the story is already written." There is only one logical path, one logical conclusion.  Life is predictable; therefore, stories of life are predictable.  

But I could have never predicted that I would find a bunch of porn mags full of pregnant chicks in the middle of a kudzu-infested field in Alabama.  

Nor could I have predicted that I would have found any of those women attractive, considering my teeny tiny age and their enormous, buck-nekkid bellies.  

Nor could I have ever predicted that one day I would write about it while searching for a metaphor to explain the mind-numbing difficulty of picking my way through- crawling on hands and knees through- some kind of original plot... circumstance... story... novel... thing... 


It really is time.  To decide if I am actually a writer or just someone whose mouth and imagination are constantly in overdrive.  Or to decide if there is even a difference.  I'd love nothing more than to quit my job to.... ahem... "pursue my writing career."  Isn't that what people say?  

But the truth is, I know that quitting my job would make absolutely no difference in the sad inefficiency of my written words.  

I know I am not a writer.  I never have been.  I am a storyteller.  And I can't figure out how to take my stories out of my head and make it so other people can see them.  Because the minute I sit with my fingers on my keyboard, the story runs away.  Gone.  In the blink of madness.  It's just gone.   

Maybe the kudzu is eating my stories.  Maybe the kudzu is.... is..... ummm.... SOCIETY!! 

Yeah, that's it.  It's keepin' me down, man.  Makin' me conform.  Ya know, the rat race and all that jazz.  Yeah.  

Or maybe I'm just a right shitty writer. 


Saturday, March 23, 2013


Fetid fellows all- 
peeking from your horde
mocking rain with twisted faces
Dare- old boys- remember her not
the taste of her infection
nor her prurient rebellion
Is it love? Oh, no. 
just a foolish infatuation. 

Trifextra Week Sixty-
"We are giving you three words and asking that you add another 33 to them to make a complete 36-word response. You may use the words in any order you choose."

Thursday, March 21, 2013


That's my writing style.  I realized that just today.  Reading through my stupid crap.  All my crap.  It's too much.  The way I tell stories.  Too much.  Too many.  Words everywhere.  Big ones, little ones, weird ones, dumb ones.  All jumbled into this crap soup that even I have to be a fucking rocket scientist to translate, and I wrote the shit!  
That's right.  I said GAH.  
I'm reading along and all I hear in my head in blah, blah, FUCKING BLAH.  

And I think to myself, "Seriously, Aimee?  For real?  What the fuck?  Have you always done this?" 

And then I pull out my kid-Aimee folder.  That old one.  Where everything is written on college-ruled notebook paper, in pencil, with these weird 3D triangle doodles in the margins.  Some of it has been crumped into paper wads and un-crumpled so many times that the paper feels like tissue.  And I read it.  


Blah, blah, blah. 

I was absolutely OBSESSED with drawing pyramid doodles when I was a kid.  I don't know why.  I don't even know how to explain it.  I guess it sort of looks like an architect's blue print thingy.  Triangles in 3D.  Pyramids.  Whatever.  Or, if not the pyramids, then pages and pages where I would draw a triangle, then an upside-down triangle attached to it, then a right-side-up triangle, then an upside-down triangle.... pages and pages and pages of it.... WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME?!?!


Writings.  Writerlies.  Writerings.  Wordlings.  Wordies.  Wordvomit.  PUKELETTERS.  VERBORRHEA.  That would be verb+gonorrhea, not verb+diarrhea.... just in case you wondered.  

I need to simplify my storytelling.  I need to just fucking hemingway myself instead of this Aimeegurgitation bullshit. 

I'm coining that word, by the way.  Aimeegurgitation.  I don't know how to coin a word, though.  So I'll just pretend its coined. 

I don't know ANYONE.  Any famous writer person.  To whom, on the back of any book I ever get published, I can compare myself.  You know, when it reads "In the style of -------" 

Yeah, nobody.  I read all this crap I write, and think.... JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY AND TELL THE GODDAMNED STORY YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!

But I can't.  Shut up.  Because that is how I tell the story.  Or how I don't tell the story.  Because I don't like telling them.  I like.... kind of.... this thing I do in my head... where I don't tell.... but... I try to.... do this other thing with the words.... you know?  Fit them where they are lyrical.  I LOVE alliteration.  It's so.... damn.... like.... spittle..... wordspittle on your chin, you know?  Bouncy words and fragments, euphemisms, bathos, synecdoche, paradoxes are my other favorite, oh the yummy disgust you can bring forth with little annoying flies in the faces you punch with your story.....
BUT IT'S IMPOSSIBLE for normal people to fucking dissect and translate and OH MY GOD Jamesfuckingjoyce makes me want to poke out my own god-damnable eyeballs.....

I think.  Yes.  Absolutely.  I want to piss people off so fucking bad that they throw my book across a room and say FUCK THIS SHIT.  But then, they stare at the upside-down book in the corner where they tossed it.... for days.... and finally.... they pick it back up again.... and say to themselves, "I'm NOT letting this bitch win!  I will finish this goddamn book if it's the last fucking thing I ever do!!!" 

So anyway.  

I'm hungry. 

The End. 

Tuesday, March 19, 2013


You know what annoys me?  Well.  A lot of things annoy me.  But.  This one thing in particular is clearly annoying me enough right now to write about it.  And it is this: 

True crime shows.  Dateline NBC.  Investigation Discovery.  All those shows.  Well, they are not what annoy me.  But it's a certain thing almost all of them unfailingly contain.  Someone describing the bad guy's courtroom disposition.  They are always stoic.  They always "show no emotion."  Their eyes are always "dead."  He always "has no soul."  He "didn't react at all" to some such thing.  Or she.  Lest I be crucified.  OR SHE..... 


Seriously.  Seriously?   Dude.  Maybe I'm just a sociopath.  Huge surprise there, right.  

It's not hard.  And.  It means absolutely nothing.  The look (or lack of one) on my face.  The "deadness" of my eyes.  The lack of (interpretable) emotion.  It's not hard.  

I've never killed anybody.  I've never dismembered a corpse.  I've never given birth to a prom night dumpster baby.  I could sit at a defendant's table in a courtroom 100% innocent.  And show you ZERO emotion.   Flash me some gruesome pics.  Talk about all the nasty murdery shit you want to.  Bodies, blood, body parts, decomp, blah, blah, blah.

That's right.  Nuttin'.  

It's not fucking hard, people.  



What is even more interesting?  And annoying?  These very same people, who are absolutely certain the bad guy is a soulless lump of heartless, cold, calculating, dead-eyed clay, actually stand up in front of him and read a "victim's statement."  Why?  If the dude ain't got no soul, do you really expect him to feel your pain?  If the dude is dead inside, you may as well be talking to a doorknob.  There is no soul there.  Do you think he is even listening to you?

Okay.  Fine.  You feel like you need to say the words.  You miss your murdered whoever.  I get it.

But if he is cold and dead and soulless.... well.... I..... you know.... I just don't get it.

You know what I would like to do?  A study.  A scientific thingamabob.

Get a bunch of pictures of the faces of accused psychokillers and victim's families.  Just the faces.  As neutral as possible.  Preferably, relatively unrecognizable to the average public.  (I.e., no Ted Bundy).  And take a poll.  Have people look at the pictures and choose which are the accused and which are the victims. 

You know why humans do this, don't you?  Make these kinds of judgments?   Marginalization.  Psychokillers MUST look and behave like psychokillers.  Otherwise, ANY OF US COULD TURN INTO A PSYCHOKILLER!!

They'd be unrecognizable.  They'd be..... (DUN. DUN. DUN)  NORMAL!!!!!


/Rant over.



Saturday, March 16, 2013

The Part Where I Talk About Writing Again

Forgive me if I am repeating myself.  Digging through 150 posts that I have unpublished from this blog has left me wondering what I was thinking with some of them.... what I was thinking when I wrote them, or what I was thinking when I took them down.

And then I remember.  Most of the time, I have no idea what I am thinking.  Ever.  At all.  Like right now.  Wait.  No.  Right now, "Private Dancer" by Tina Turner.  That's what I am thinking.  I really have no idea why.  It's just in my head.  That's woman's legs are longer than my whole body.  

That's what I am thinking.  
Like I said.  Repeat myself, blah, blah, blah.  I do that a lot.  
I have two blogs.  I really have no idea why.  I mean, I know why I used to.  But not anymore.  

Between both of them, most folks have no idea that I am a fiction writer.  99% of the stuff I write on blogs is just me.  Just me rambling about something.  Something personal.  I have a lot of poetry here, but again, that's just me.  Rambling a bit more grandiloquently, but rambling nonethless.  It's certainly nothing I take seriously. 

Matter of fact.  There is nothing in either blog I take seriously.  It's strange.  I have posted little quips and scraps of fiction here and there, and then quickly took it down.  I know I have said that before, but I don't know if I have really explained why. 

There are many reasons for this.  The main one being that I am just weird.  I am seriously considering the notion of writing under a pen name.  

I read a blog once where someone said that if they didn't stick their fiction work on their blog, it would never see the light of day.  I didn't, and still don't, understand what this means.  Why not?  

I am exactly the opposite.  If I write anything I expect to see the light of day, I would NEVER put it on my blog.  Which is one of the biggest reasons I don't publish my fiction here.  Or anywhere.  If someone else wants to publish it, great.  But not me.  My brain sort of thinks it would be tainted in some weird way.  As long as it stays unseen, then it's pure.  Once I throw it up on a blog for the whole world to see, it's soiled and spoiled.

I told you I was weird.  

Even some of the flash fiction prose I have written in response to prompts I have taken down.  If I see any potential in it, if a story begins to take shape, I'll take it down.  

Some of my other take-downs have been emotionally charged pieces I no longer wanted public.  I haven't deleted them, just took them down.  I was a different person when I wrote them, one I don't recognize anymore when I read them, so why would I want to claim them?  

Yes.  Yep.  I sure have thought about starting yet another blog where I can remain anonymous.  Perhaps I could toss some fiction up and get some honest feedback without the commitment and humiliation of attaching my real name to it. 

But no.  I will not.  

My best friend has read most of my recent fiction.  Sometimes, I will get lost in the writing and it may take me a while to find a path through the undergrowth, so I won't pass her anything for a while.  But she and my son are probably the only people on the whole of the Earth who would be allowed to read it all- anything and whatever.  I'd probably give both or either of them full access to any folder on my whole computer to read as they wished.  

There are a couple of other people whose opinion I crave.  People who know me well enough to know my potential and care enough about me to point out the times when I don't meet it.  People whose own talent far surpasses mine and whose passion for the craft I admire.  I shall pass them a few things here and there.  For these people, it will only be what I judge as "my best," though, because it is before these people I would be humiliated if I wrote something stupidly sub-par.  

So, there.  I just wanted to put that out there.  I am a fiction writer.  More to the point, I am a sci-fi and horror fiction writer.  I have been since I was 10 years old.   I have thousands upon thousands of words I have written.  Hundreds upon hundreds of characters I have invented, befriended, confided in, and killed off.  It has only been the past year or so that I have had enough confidence to actually submit anything.  Some of it has been published in little places.  I have actually even turned down a few markets in retrospect if I decide it isn't something I want to be associated with.  And like any writer, I have quite a respectable little pile of rejections which I am curiously quite proud of.   

They remind me that I am real.  That life is real.  My pile of acceptances prove I know the standard and am good enough to meet it.  My pile of rejections prove that not everyone is going to kiss my ass. 

But now you know.  

As one of my characters said not too long ago, "My neuroses invaded every facet of my life, but my social isolation served to keep them hidden behind a curtain of shame."

Little does she know, she's fixina get raped.


Friday, March 15, 2013


Have you ever watched a black widow spider? Not seen one. Watched one. They are truly beautiful creatures. Fiercely violent when it’s required. Silent and hidden when it is not. But I will tell you a secret. You could sit and watch a black widow spider for minutes, hours, days, years, and never ever be able to understand what it is like to be a black widow spider. It’s true. You could love that black widow spider with everything you are and everything you have. You could be willing to die for her. But you will never be able to see the world through her eyes. And while it is respectable and commendable that you love her so, while she appreciates the crickets you toss in her web, the protection you afford her, your admiration of her beauty and cunning, and while you may take her lack of bite as a sign that she reciprocates your affection, your love will never be enough to make her human. And although she might not want to hurt you to simply see you suffer, pain becomes inevitable when you attempt to enclose her world in glass, either your pain when she breaks free or her pain when she dies.

"That's when Wendell Gee
takes a tug upon the string
that held the line of trees.
Behind the house he lived in
He was reared to give respect
But somewhere down the line he chose
To whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows with me"

Do you know I have 150 posts on this blog that are all drafts?  A lot of them I never published.  A lot of them I took down when I decided to attach my borned self to this blog.  I've been scrubbing through them lately, laughing at myself.  I pulled this one from the chives for the Studio 30+ Weekly Spotlight.

Even though I think the whole concept of having a "favorite song" is quite strange, I have to admit that Wendell Gee has always been my favorite song since forever.  I don't know why.  It's about a used car salesman.  It was originally a song Michael Stipe hated, but I think he grew to love it in the end.  There has never been a great copy online, but this one will do.   If you want it in its full-on glory, you can iTunes it.

The Michael Stipe in this video is the one I fell in love with.  Flat out.  In. Love.  With this man.


Saturday, March 9, 2013

Sauce for the Gander

"But Madam Justice, she is just a knee-high child."  
Crowd nods. 
"Stand her on a chair if it assuages your guilt...." 
Crowd gasps. 
".....Stone her lest I feed her to the rats!" 
Trifextra Week Fifty-Eight-
 This weekend, we want you to give us a thirty-three response using the word stone as one of your thirty-three words."

Wednesday, March 6, 2013


Raindrops kiss her eyelids-
The sentences she makes with the words vicodin and poptarts are piled one upon the other and burned in a pyre of lonely socks.  
the drops dissuade her lids against the coming
shade in the bonnet of the blackballer

(Found this saved as a draft just now while trying to magically conjure up some shit to write about.... No, I have no memory of writing this.  Yes, I must have been high.  On what? Lack of sleep?  Poptarts?  I have no Vicodin....)

Friday, March 1, 2013

Go Read My Chile

My oldest son, Jake, is guest posting over at Pleasantly Demented.  If you're interesting in a first-person narrative of childbirth from the eyes of a 17-year-old boy with pink hair who likes Build-A-Bear and annoying me, read on....  Jake Tells of Contractions and Man-Tears!