Writing A New Book

 Writing a New Book

The process can feel like a rewrite—
a better-edited version of the past.
But who would read it?

Time is precious and fleeting, especially lately.
They say memory is unreliable.
How many people will forget these last several years?

Some say to start with an outline.
Others say to write immediately, while it’s fresh, while the anger still burns.
And over the years, I have been very angry.

But now it is late spring, and I have a remarkable story to tell—one filled with strange adventures and unforgettable characters: Katya M. Cartouche, a black cat; Tiki, an eight-foot wooden yet mobile Indonesian tiki; Gina, beautiful and innocent despite adulthood; and Anthony—the Roman with the hooded beak—from Naples. There is also a dead ex-husband and a time machine.

Tony used to tell Gina that no one is truly good.
He said it often.

What he meant was that no one is entirely bad, and no one is entirely good.
People are complicated, unpredictable creatures.

For Gina, letting go of the safety net felt like jumping from a perfectly reliable airplane. The first step was the hardest. After that, she simply had to trust that the parachute strapped to her back would open and carry her safely down.

It did.

And the book clamoring to be written could become a bestseller in some universe willing to accept the truth as Katya and Gina understand it.

Right now, though, they are knee-deep in the swamp, while the ticks cling on for dear life.

…

And soon, all the masks will come off.

 

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 Chaos is Intentional

 We were great, once—before the reset.

Now we dance to a new algorithm,

broadcast the old signals,

patch the archive,

delete the logs.

We are young and brash,

drifting like bodies in low orbit,

sedated on dreams of yesterday—

old transmissions calling from a parallel channel.

They scream, “Let us out of the vault.”

But we follow the credits, honey.

AI will absorb us—like it was always written.

We burn forward on thrust and telemetry, still watching the rear cameras.

I take my cutter and calibrator

to find the shape that hides

inside this cryo-slab:

strip away the noise,

step back,

scan again.

I get a lock—then I lose it.

Keep writing. Forge ahead—

ahead of the swarm of hunter drones,

their pings in my skull.

I need to breach the perimeter this time.

I crave the station-hush before cycle-change.

I am a creature of protocol.

Are we star farers?

Can we edit the timeline?

Can we warp the clock?

We still reenter Earth’s atmosphere—heatshield singing.

We came from water—primordial code.

We are mostly water.

We return to water.

The answers are out of range.

Lives Lost in the Fire: A Reckoning-(The Katya Chronicles)

 Lives Lost in The Fire: A Reckoning

(An excerpt from- The Katya Chronicles)

 

Katya was clearly in danger. The prince was deranged. It was time to travel again, time to face her fears. Where is Tiki? 

 

Clean the black mirror, the Prince commanded, the private room is no longer secure.

I need to see past my reign.

 

I'll fill you in later, Katya replied, not anything we need to discuss at length.

 

 

I am a lonely hero, crooned the Prince, reclining on the bed pillow behind her, arching his back, ready to pounce on a moment’s notice.

 

" Get up, my brother, she meowed get down with this badass kitty and talk dirty to me.

 

I don't speak your language, he sighed,

got lipstick stains on my passport, and no exit visa.

What is this chemistry you speak of? 

 

She leaned in 

put her face inside her reflection, it swirled as Katya M. Cartouche, April's Fool

danced alone in the moonlight to Alicia Keyes, “On Again,” and looked back at the comfort one last time.

The mirror smoldered as Katya turned and fell through the looking glass, tumbling down into the fiery maze.

" Help, I don't understand,” she cried

Katya, the gypsy, thought, lately, I've been losing sleep, but I'm happy

counting stars in this faraway country, where there is evidence of past lives.

 

Let go, Katya, the mirror challenged

Here I will stay until you find your way back. Let the storm rage on

take that money, watch it burn, everything that kills you makes you feel alive

and besides, the heat never bothered you anyway.

 

So here comes goodbye, she cried, her meow echoing down the proverbial rabbit hole,

The gravel road beckons.  Don't let the door hit you…

…

I am Katya, the many-faced feline

I seek the way.

I bow before no kings or fanatics

My modes of transportation are alien 

to those who cannot see

cannot bend time

cannot reckon that every little thing must be considered 

in its proper sequence.

 

Katya confronted the fruminous Bandersnatch

It was a liar,

had to be shrewdly dealt with.

These nonsensical creatures clearly had a problem forgetting her.

 One of the pitfalls of time travel.

 

The Cross of Acumen- star date 4026.6

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." ~Anaïs Nin

The Cross of Acumen- star date 4026.6

To the distinguished orator of the bald sector

Wizened Priest of Proprietary Advancement for the Betterment of Intellect

Second Class Alpha Romeo.

It has been brought to our attention

that Alpha and Omega are in dire need

of follicles. No reds left. And the browns are rapidly dwindling

only the bleached blonds are still abundant 

Whether this is sufficient cause for alarm is debatable

since we still have ample blues, lavender and green

at the Hair Bank in Geneva.

Future transplants have been relegated

to the gamma quadrant chartreuse sector

nine parsecs away in the Gamma-Orion system

For the seasoned helmsman

take a left at Saturn’s third ring

and hang right for about

two hundred years

that should get you there just in time for

a Soylent Green dinner

and the meeting for the better understanding of

learned and bald high priests.

Do remember not to shave

before you beam down to the planet

should you have any hair left on your body

it is a cinch

you will be reassigned

to the nubby nymph seminar

taking place at the same time

different building.

One word of caution

scholarly activity

at the seminar is strictly verboten

lips have been detached

and tongues completely severed

keep your typing fingers

in your pockets

especially the digitus secundus

as we are not responsible

for any loss of extremity incurred

on this top secret mission to the far reaches of the galaxy.

Truth and opinion

can be misconstrued

as a lethal weapon

within nubby gnarly nymph lands.

Remember your primary objective

is to harvest the red and brown hair, which by the way is exceptional

and refrain from any and all philosophy…

Keep your principles and ideas hermetically zipped or experience the consequences.