The Katya Chronicles-Gina (present time)

 The Katya Chronicles-Gina (present time)

Gina was still on her sixth life.

Time had passed quickly, and there was no looking back—though she had no desire to.

Too much had happened—things that could never be undone.

Tony was dead.

He had been gone since 2017, and the horror show had long since ended.

The years of abuse were a faint memory.

Gina was starting to remember the good times.

It hadn’t been all bad. Nothing ever is.

Now, when she looked at an old photo, she could almost see why she’d fallen for Tony.

He was strikingly handsome, with a muscular frame and piercing blue eyes. You could bounce a quarter off his abs. He could hold his own with anyone. Tony was all swagger and menace—a predator with a colossal ego. In the end, they caught him in the act, and he would never abuse another woman again.

In the photo, he posed beside a giant marlin hanging from a hook. There were many pictures like that, trophies from fish he had battled over the years. He had even written a poem about his conquests. Even that had felt like an invasion, as if nothing was sacred, as if he had to claim superiority in every possible way. By then, he was deep into his tattoo phase, his upper torso covered in ink. Gina’s name was tattooed on his upper arm—left or right, she could not remember.  Enough, she thought, tossing the photo back into the box. It was time to shower and get dressed.

 

Gina needed to focus on caring for Sophia.

Her mother was on her ninth life. Sophia’s time was almost over.

Nothing was more important than that, especially not a dead husband. 

 

The Trouble with Time Machines

 The Trouble with Time Machines

Or Outlander—and the weapons I’d bring into battle.

Guns tear holes. Bad attitudes hold the wreckage together. But Jamie and Claire—what happened to them? Are they truly gone? Are we really supposed to believe the door to time travel is shut for good—and that we’ll never hear Sassenach again?

And Roger and Bree? Ian and Rachael? Absolutely not. I wouldn’t leave them dead. I’d drag them back, send them home to the Ridge, and give them the lives they were always meant to have—especially for Fannie, after Claire swore she’d never leave her behind.

I’d make Claire carry gemstones—no excuses, no regrets. If Jamie can time-travel in dreams, then I’m not surrendering my happy ending.

Not while Katya and Tiki stand at the forest's edge, straight from the future, beside their one-of-a-kind time machine. So tell me—do we get the ending we deserve, or does the doom-and-gloom crowd win?

Money

 Money

say it:

Show me the money.

honey

where would we be

without it?

I’d like to shout it

from the rooftops

Money makes the world go round

you relentless hound.

It’s what keeps us afloat

in your boat

which is huge

what a stooge.

It’s that silly

willy nilly

Philly

at the Kentucky Derby.

It’s everything we had

before the wheel turned against us.

So it comes down to this:

money, power, and time.

We find the signs

you left behind, too late

after the horse is out the gate

and your horse always wins

again and again.

You shout down

through the air

in some satellite above humanity

in your precious throne room

filled with supercomputers

and data banks for your crypto

currency.

But shh

Don’t say it’s power.

Don’t say it’s time.

Don’t say you care, it’s money.

 

 

Chocolate As Inspiration and Art

 Chocolate As Inspiration and Art

(Inspired by Lagusta’s Luscious in New Paltz)

 

We appeared to be provisional citizens of an avoidable misunderstanding,

furious vulvas, indeed!

While the confections proceeded with unofficial diplomacy

until Hawaii entered the paragraph as an expert witness with tenure.

And to think it all started with vegan chocolate, made by women, which arrived with the self-importance of a minor prophet and excellent packaging.

Our writers group nibbled while drafting, each of us pretending this counted as research.

It was intense and sweet, like brainstorming in formalwear during a very polite emergency,

luscious and lively, as if every sentence had a train to catch and a reputation to protect,

and somehow, against all odds and several commas, it was wildly productive.

We praised the small miracles of language, especially the ones that arrived five minutes after we had given up

while rolling each confection over our tongues like a suspicious but promising thesis statement

letting the sweetness settle into us until every bad draft looked briefly like destiny in a good coat.

Feasting, Fanfare, and a Very Determined Walk

 Feasting, Fanfare, and a Very Determined Walk

 

Today is the Feast of the Ascension,

and the clock is grinning at five.

A little late for heaven’s early-bird special,

but still squarely in the rooster-approved shift

when prayer slips in like steam from a fresh cup,

bringing mental cobwebs to heel

and kicking stress out like an uninvited cousin.

I am oddly peaceful,

like a parade float before the band starts blasting.

Today’s grand quest: a lap around the lake with friends,

having already evicted a few stubborn gremlins from the attic of my mind.

I am awake,

armored in clothes,

and primed like a toaster at dawn.

The body is on board,

though the appetite has been throwing confetti for days,

so now it is time to let my Keens preach.

 

 

Bare Limbs

 Bare Limbs

Greening light,

bare limbs growing bright,

bare limbs wake and sway,

as green life finds its way.

 

Spring has sprung,

the bells have rung,

time to rise,

and greet warmer skies.

Bare limbs stir,

a soft and leafy blur,

alive with squirrel song,

while groundhogs nose along.

 

Still, we watch with care

as seedlings fill the air,

beneath the budding trees

that dance in the northern breeze.

Directing The Unruly

At present, nature’s cycle lays down its campaign—

blue forget-me-nots spread like a polite little carpet,

with purple and yellow wildflowers freelancing at the edges.

It still looks manageable out there—or at least it does from the porch—and I, their General, must command the forces.

The wild animals, aside from the chipmunks and squirrels, are currently occupied with sabotage elsewhere.

We live in the country, bordered by woods and woodchucks—voracious little heathens with excellent tunnel strategy.

Monet would paint this if only someone had the decency to install a pond.

“You over there—yes, you—stop growing.

I’d like you all to remain exactly this height and not flood the front steps this year.

We will maintain peace and harmony despite the seasonal uprising.

Sticker bushes are hereby ordered to retreat and let the front line have its moment to bloom.

Day lilies, front and center. Lilacs, this is your hour—try not to get smug about it.

I need a clear view of the field before the next skirmish.

To mulch or not to mulch: that is the question.

Whether ’tis nobler to trim and weed or to let the ivy stage its slow-motion coup along the side garden remains under review.

Your General is, alas, allergic to the insufferable poison ivy, which looks innocent now but has the soul of a criminal.

I promise to attack the flanks and tidy up soon—tomorrow, if morale improves.”