I Am an Intimidation Tactic

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am the library witch.

I don’t know know when it happened, but sometime in the last almost five years of employment I became the library clerk to be feared.

People whisper not to cross me or I’ll hex them. I’m talked about like a punishment, a threat. “This is Christin. She’s our cudgel.” I am the threat of blunt force trauma in snazzy pants and funky tights and cute dresses. We joke about the ghosts of librarians past, but I’m the one that actually haunts the library. I skulk through the stacks, looking for children to scare and patrons to frighten. Coworkers to bully.

I am more feared than an ’80s slasher villain no matter their body count and how many times they come back from the dead.

I am a curse.

And I have no idea what to make of it. Because I’ve been this way for a long time. I can’t say forever because I wasn’t like this when I was a kid. I was shy and sensitive and incredibly weird. I admit that I’ve always been an angry little thing and prone to fighting and that did give me a little bit of a reputation. Turned out to stick with me even though the only person I fought in high school was my sister, who also had a bit of a reputation as someone not to cross. One of our friends whom we’d known since childhood once said that everyone wanted to be our friend because nobody wanted to be on our bad side.

Okay, maybe I have always been this way. It just had to mature along with me, refine itself into this raven that sits on my shoulder, alerting everyone to my potential.

I seem to haunt every place I go. If there’s a group dynamic, I unintentionally establish myself as the imminent danger.

I think it’s in part because I do not suffer fools. I come from a family of non-fool sufferers, which was rough when I was young and a fool because I was not suffered. Now I’m the one who is not doing any suffering. I do not have time for ignorant nonsense. Has customer service exacerbated this aspect of my personality? Absolutely. There’s a prevalence of fools in this line of work and I will not suffer a single one. That makes an impression. Even when I’m not trying to give that impression, it’s so infused in my aura that I still make that impression. More than once I’ve been told that when people first meet me they’re intimidated. While I appreciate that power, it’s not the default the vibe I’m going for.

Most people want to be liked. Life is easier when you’re liked. I don’t think about being liked. I tend to assume that I’m not liked. I’m tolerated. It’s better to be on my good side than my bad. “Don’t make Christin angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.” And you wouldn’t. I’m less than fun when I’m angry at you (I am hilarious, though, if I’m ranting about something that has nothing to do with you). So, when I find out that people actually like me, it confuses me. Surely, you jest. Did you miss the memo? The vibes? The aura? The warnings?

Or did you figure that befriending the monster would keep you safe? And once you did, you realized that she really isn’t that bad.

As long as you stay on my good side.

I Never Go Out Alone…Anxiety Is My Forever Date

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I’m not the most social creature. I’m like a cryptid. Sightings of me in the wild are rare and to be treasured, sometimes worthy of being caught on film.

When I do make these rare excursions into the social sphere, I prefer to go with others. Also like a cryptid, I’m weird and awkward around humans. Having a friend or a group of friends makes that awkwardness and weirdness less noticeable. It also makes it easier for me to be in a social situation. Having someone else or a group of someone elses with me acts as sort of a buffer from the anxiety of being in a social situation. They are the lubricant that greases the wheels of my social interactions, as it were.

Sometimes, though, I have to fly solo. Or maybe just arrive solo with the intent of meeting up with my lubricants and buffers. But either/or, I’m never really solo. My anxiety is always with me.

Here’s the thing: Alone or with friends, if I’m out and about in a social situation, I never feel like I belong. I always feel awkward and I feel like that awkwardness is apparent. I feel like the people I’m interacting with -even friends I’ve known for decades- can plainly see that I’m poorly cosplaying as a functioning human being. Now, with the friends I’ve known for ages, I eventually relax and even though my anxiety never goes away and I will absolutely rake myself over the coals later about everything I’ve said and done, my anxiety at least relaxes with me for that moment. But, if I’m with people I’m less comfortable with because maybe I haven’t known them as long or I don’t hang out with them as much, or I’m flying solo and forced to be in the midst of people I barely know or don’t know at all, I never relax and neither does my anxiety. I spend the entire time in performance mode, and that my friends, is exhausting.

In theory, the more that I socialize, the more comfortable my anxiety could become with the whole act of socializing. The more my anxiety and I feel comfortable with socializing, the more we’ll feel like we belong in those situations and with those people.

In practice, however…well, I don’t know how it works out in practice because I struggle with getting past my basic cryptid nature and ingrained social anxiety to actually put this into practice. The idea of making myself more available to hang out with people seems like guaranteed rejection because who would want to voluntarily hangout with an anxiety-ridden cryptid? Sure, I would, but that’s because cryptids of a feather. Or another more fitting cryptid feature. I guess it depends on the cryptid. My point is that it’s a pretty big ask to associate with me in a public, social situation and not everyone is up for that and I don’t blame them.

Yes, I know that could just be my anxiety talking, but it could also be true.

In conclusion, this is one of those things that I’m going to spend my existence working on. Maybe one day the practice will finally prove the theory. In the meantime, enjoy the cryptid sightings.

Holy Shit, I Haven’t Published Anything in Five Years

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

You may have noticed that the latest release on the site hasn’t changed in a while. A little over five years, actually. I had this realization late one night while my brain was doing its mental gymnastics before it finally shut up and let me sleep.

Holy shit, I haven’t published anything in five years.

It should go without saying that I’m not counting the freebies here or the Patreon projects I’ve done. I’m talking about self-publishing or in the very rare case traditional publishing. Haven’t published a damn thing in five years.

There was a period of time between 2013 and 2019 that I had something published at least once a year, and in many case, multiple things. Those were the boon years, I suppose. I had a ton of ideas, a ton of projects, a ton of time and dedication to getting things written, revised, polished, and published for the masses.

Now, by no means was I successful. I think my best-selling title has sold a little over 500 copies in its entire existence. But I was productive. I always had something going. I felt like as long as I kept churning out stories, something would eventually catch. I’d build that mythological platform that agents and publishers look for and I’d be able to take the next step in my writing career.

Instead, the bottom fell out.

Writing became hard. The ideas dried up. I shifted focus to just getting through Murderville for Patreon because everything was so difficult. I had nothing going. Nothing to publish. It all dried up. I think unconsciously I decided that I was done. Not necessarily writing because I don’t know how to be done writing even when it’s hard. But I was done publishing. I was never going to write anything that anyone would want to read and it was too hard to write anything for myself that I’d want anyone to read for a price. I was just kinda done.

Then by some miracle writing stopped being hard.

But the urge to publish hasn’t exactly returned. At least it’s not exactly like it used to be.

While I am looking to get back into the game and reacquaint myself with the business of submitting short stories while also keeping my eyes open for agents that might be a good fit for me if I ever manage to finish a book that wouldn’t be a waste of their time to read, the drive to be focused on producing and publishing as much as possible hasn’t returned. That frantic urge that pushed me to publish multiple novellas and short story collections in a year is nowhere to be found. And honestly, I’m kind of glad for that.

It’s been nice to write without it feeling like I’m sucking out my own bone marrow with a crazy straw. I want to enjoy it. And I want to take my time reintroducing myself to getting published, be it traditionally or self-done. Why be balls to the wall when I don’t have to be? There’s plenty of time for me to go full-tilt when I’m ready.

So I guess that latest release will just remain unchanged.

For now.

Flash Fiction–“The Children’s Floor”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

It’s Leap Day and since February is extended by one day, let’s do another little bit of a flash fiction.

And by little bit of flash fiction, I mean a 100 word story. Until I was inspired by yet another contest, I’d never considered writing a story so short. It proved to be a wonderful challenge.

Of course, I didn’t win the contest, but I did gain a new story skill.

The Children’s Floor

It was the way the library was designed. That was the problem. The way sound ricocheted around the building, showed up in unexpected places. That’s why Alice hated working the second floor, the children’s floor. She only had to cover an occasional hour here and there, but those always seemed to be the dead hours when there were no children or parents or anyone else. Only her.

Alice and the voices.

The ghostly conversations, disembodied voices asking questions, stifled giggles mocking her unease.

That’s what she hated about the children’s floor.

Alice would never know if it was really haunted.

Flash Fiction– “Haunted House”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Since February is the shortest month -even during a leap year- it seems fitting to take advantage of that and post some flash fiction.

This is a 500 word story that I initially wrote during a NaNoWriMo while doing several pieces to make my 50,000 word count. The first draft was twice as long and not working. A 500 word story contest inspired me to cut it in half and I was much happier with it.

I lost the contest, but I gained a story.

Haunted House

She’s hiding behind a desk in a room. Not under it. She doesn’t want to get trapped. Under it, she would be trapped. Behind it, she can jump and run. And she can keep an eye on the door, peering over the ruined wood as she kneels on cracked and crackling tile.

He’s hunkered down in the room across the hall. She can’t see him even though the door is ajar. There’s only a little bit of light in the hallway. Everything is in black and white. The only color is the writing on the wall, the drippy numbers that mean nothing to her. The big blue three looms over her.

She doesn’t know him. She snuck in on a dare. He was already inside. But now they’re both in this together, a sacred pact of bad decisions.

It’s quiet. All she hears is her own breathing.

And footsteps. Echoing. Closer.

She wants to cry. Instead, she ducks down and holds her breath, afraid he’ll hear her breathe.

Can he hear her heart pound?

She nearly bolts when she hears a door squeak open. Nearly. It’s not her door. It’s his. The door to the room across the hall where her friend in poor life choices is hiding.

She risks a peek and sees the monster they’re hiding from disappear inside, tall and grimy, with filthy hair stringing down his back, his soiled wifebeater somehow stark in the scant light.

He’s in there now. He’s in there with him.

She risks a breath, afraid it’ll turn into a scream. She hopes to whatever God might be around that the monster doesn’t find him.

She should run before the monster finds her.

Vague sounds of movement. A muffled scramble.

The reverberation of a crack!thud gags her. The body of the friend she never knew falls through the door, his balding head now a bloody mash on one side. The unblemished side smacks the tile, causing another ripple of nausea. He lies there, his head and shoulders in the hallway, the rest of him swallowed into the darkness of the room he’d been hiding in.

She stares in horror because what else can she do? The worst has already happened, right?

Another muffled noise from across the hall and then the fresh corpse is jerked into the darkness of the room.

Adrenaline floods her body.

Now she’s running.

She’s out from behind the desk and into the hallway before she allows herself to process that she’s moving, her footfalls giving her away as she pounds down the busted tile in search of freedom in the dim maze.

The echoes become a stampede.

He’s right behind her, he’s gaining, and she can’t remember how to get out.

She can’t get out.

Her last thought in life isn’t a fear-driven plea for escape. It isn’t even panicked.

It’s the calm answer to the question that caused her to sneak inside in the first place.

“So, that’s why the haunted house corpses look so real.”

Read This If–Love Is in the Air

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

There are a lot of tropes in genre fiction and naturally, the romance genre has a ton.

One that I’ve discovered that I enjoy is the forbidden romance. Not the “I can’t be with you because I have hang-ups” kind of forbidden, but the “We absolutely cannot be together because outside reasons” forbidden.

These two books are on the opposite ends of the spice scale and their outside obstacles are wildly different, but their forbiddenness satisfies my thirst for the trope.

Love at 350° by Lisa Peers- On the very mild end of the spice scale, we have love during a TV baking contest. Tori Moore is a high school chemistry teacher with dreams of opening her own bakery. With an empty nest looming, her twins get her an audition on American Bake-o-Rama, where she meets Kendra Campbell, the notoriously tough judge, who’s going through her own life upheaval. It takes no time for the two of them to develop heart eyes for each other, but there’s a clause in the contract about fraternizing that would cost them both dearly.

This is a very sweet story and due to the nature of the contract, the romance is a very hands-off slow burn. I realize that doesn’t sound like it would be too entertaining, but it is. In part because there’s a lot of story going on around the romance. Tori’s facing a huge life change as a divorced woman with her twins leaving for college and the prospect of leaving a job she loves for the dream she craves and winning the contest would be her springboard. Meanwhile, Kendra is facing the closure of her beloved restaurant while dealing with her business manager brother’s matchmaking.

And then there’s the competition itself, which is very much like The Great British Bake-off with the likeable contestants you’re sad to see leave. But this show has a little more drama including secrets and sabotage.

The book also includes a recipe for paper bag apple pie. Who doesn’t love pie? (Don’t answer that.)

Mistakes Were Made by Meryl Wilsner- And on the absolute other end of the spice spectrum, we have a May-December romance with one big complication. Cassie Klein uses Family Weekend at college to go off-campus and ends up landing a very hot one-night stand with an older woman…who turns out to be the mom of one of her best friends at school. Oops! Erin Bennett wasn’t meaning to hook-up with a college student when she went to visit her daughter at school and she definitely didn’t mean for it to be her daughter’s friend.

Things get complicated when Parker brings Cassie home for the holidays. Cassie and Erin find that any hope of keeping their hands off each other impossible and start hooking up on the sly. The complications get even more complicated when the super hot sex sprouts genuine feelings.

What I like is that Erin and Cassie have lives and relationships outside of this burning, horny passion. Cassie has school and friend drama beyond keeping it from Parker that she’s hooking up with her mom. Meanwhile, Erin’s faced with keeping this secret from Parker while also battling her ex for her daughter’s attention.

It’s a whole lot of messy and a whole lot of good. And the sex is really, really hot.

If you give these forbidden romances a try, I hope find them irresistible. And if you don’t, keep it a secret.

I Cannot Be in a Het Relationship

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

If you read the blog post title, you might be thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme.”

If you didn’t read the blog post title, I’ll repeat myself. I cannot be in a het relationship.

Now that you’ve had time to think, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme,” allow me to explain. Just in case you’re that thoroughly invested in my non-existent love life.

As it has been well-established, I am bisexual. Or bi+. Or queer. Therefore, it is impossible for me to be in a het relationship.

This tends to confuse people. As a bisexual person, I am (unfortunately) attracted to men and have been in relationships with an unlucky few. From the outside, it looks like I’m in a het relationship. There’s a cis woman and a cis man (or a trans man) doing relationship things. Why would anyone suspect anything different? Hell, even the poor fella in the relationship would assume that it was a het relationship if he’s, ya know, cishet.

Hate to break it to you, my dude, but you’re in a queer relationship here. Relax! It doesn’t make you any less het. It also doesn’t make me any less bi.

I think this is one of the most baffling aspects of bisexuality (and probably pansexuality, but I don’t identify that way, so I won’t speak for them). Most people don’t seem to understand that our sexuality isn’t defined by our relationship status. We don’t suddenly stop being bi because we enter into a “het” relationship. Our Rainbow Mafia membership cards don’t get revoked because of other people’s straight perceptions. We do not choose sides. We’re on the same side we’ve always been on. The Bi Side.

Don’t think I’m picking on the fellas here. By the same logic, I cannot be in a lesbian relationship either. Sure, it’s still a queer relationship because we’re both queer, but it’s not a lesbian relationship because I’m not a lesbian. It’s not a lesbian relationship if the other woman is also bisexual. Or pansexual. Or trans. Yes, even if the trans woman identifies as a lesbian. See the above statement in which I cannot be in a lesbian relationship because I do not identify as a lesbian.

You may be wondering what the big deal is. Who cares if people think your relationship is het? Or lesbian? Well, I do. I care because it’s my relationship and it deserves to be respected in its definition. I realize that strangers glancing in the direction of me and my hypothetical partner can’t determine such details from a distance, but the people closer to us are more in the loop. They should know. They DO know. But when it comes to being in a relationship with a man, it’s easy for them to dismiss my queerness because of the straight optics. I don’t like being dismissed.

I also care because I don’t need or want a cishet male partner using his cishetness to dismiss my queerness. Your straight dick didn’t straighten me.

My bisexuality is an important part of my identity and it doesn’t go away if I happen to fall for a dude just because it makes you see straight.

This Is Where I Keep My Crazy

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I realized the other night that I’ve been keeping a journal for over twenty years.

I’ve probably talked about my journaling before, but I’m prone to repeat myself more often now that my brain is 95% song lyrics and movie quotes. So, I’m just going to talk about it again.

I remember attempting diaries as a kid, but never stuck with it. Probably because I was nine and didn’t have much of a life to write about and even though I was a writer, I thought diaries were strictly for real life escapades. As far as I was concerned, I was not doing any escapades worth writing about back then.

About six months after my oldest niece was born, I was gifted a journal. She’s twenty-two now. Anyway, it took me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to write my first entry. Once that seal was broken, though, I found it easier to write down my thoughts. But it would be years before I made it a daily habit.

Despite what my nine year old self thought, I’m still not using my journals strictly for my real life escapades, though the few escapades I do manage to have typically rate a mention.

My journals are where I keep my crazy.

My mind is a hellscape. It frequently gets too full. That one time I saw a therapist for three appointments before she got sick and I never rescheduled, she said that part of my problem is that I hold things in to the point that they overflow, and that retention was contributing heavily to the toxic state of my mind. So, I started putting the things that I couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about out loud into the pages of my journals. It helped. It got it out of my head and onto the page where I could see it and examine it from a safe distance. Poking about the words spewed from my brain has helped me a lot when it comes to figuring out how my defective grey matter works.

My roommate, who once had her privacy invaded thanks to a journal-reading incident, asked me how I can just leave my journal on my bedside table without worrying about someone reading it.

Simple.

If you read my journal, you get what you deserve.

People underestimate the shit that goes on in my head. I’m not just writing about annoying coworkers and petty grievances and people I find dreamy (though I do mention that sometimes). I’m not just jotting down my goals and to do lists and my dreams (though I do that, too).

This is where I keep my crazy. My rage. My self-harm thoughts. My go-to-jail thoughts. My delusions and illusions. My paranoia. My anxiety. My depression. My whacked out, what the fuck thoughts that would make even the strongest whimper and cringe. This shit is not for the faint of heart. It’s not even for the sure of heart.

If someone decides to go sneaking a peek at those pages, they’re going to end up scarred for life. They’re certainly never going to look at me the same way ever again. And it would be all their own fault.

I have every intention of destroying my journals before I die. Or leaving instructions with someone I trust to have them destroy them for me. There’s no goldmine in those pages, nothing publishable, nothing salvageable, nothing memorable. Nothing that needs to be remembered.

They’re just bits of my mind, anyway.

They should go with me to the grave.

What’s My Stretchmarks Rebrand?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Remember when everyone started calling the stretchmarks gained in pregnancy “tiger stripes”? It was done in an effort to make child bearing folks feel better about the changes their body underwent while they were growing and birthing an entire human being. As a collective, we decided to change a flaw to a badge of honor. As well we should. Growing and birthing a person is kind of a big deal.

So, I have to ask…where’s my stretchmarks rebrand?

My first stretchmarks came from puberty, as did a lot of other people’s. Many of these faded marks on my hips I got as I entered my teens. These deep grooves on my breasts came from a late bloomer blossoming so fast that I went up multiple cup sizes in a year. What are these stretchmarks? Boob grooves? Growth charts? Puberty scars? Puberty is a pretty brutal time of life, anyway. Might as well show the stretchmarks as the warrior wounds they are.

And what about the stretchmarks I acquired through weight gain? Why should they be vilified? There are many tasty treats and lazy days behind some of those marks (a lot of depression, injury, and illness, too, but never mind the negative; we’re being positive here). What do we call those? Burrito bands? Cookie cracks? Buffet lines?

I ask these inane questions because stretchmarks are a mark of life. Most people have them. They are proof of growth during life. Why do they need a rebrand? Specifically, why are only one specific type of stretchmarks worthy of a rebrand?

As a society, we’re kind of hung up on exemptions. It’s okay to have stretchmarks as long as you’ve acquired them because of pregnancy. It’s okay to be fat as long as you’re fat a certain way (“curvy” with a tiny waist, flat stomach, and fat ass, also try not to be over a size 14) or you’re a “good” fatty because you’re actually healthy or you’re trying not to be fat. It’s okay to be old as long as you look younger than your age. It’s wild to think of how many of these sorts of societal standards have asterisks on them. Terms and conditions may apply.

In the long run, stretchmarks as a flaw is a bullshit concept. Pristine skin with no evidence of existence is yet another unattainable standard. As I said, many of us get marked in our early teens. Ruined before we begin, no chance at perfection. Of course, there’s no money to be made if we accept ourselves how we are, now is there? I’m not going to purchase a cream to fade my stretchmarks if they don’t bother me. There’s no means to keep us in our places either, so to speak. You can’t shame me for a flaw if I don’t have it, right? Can’t keep me small and insecure, can’t lower my value over a perceived defect if I don’t perceive it.

I’m going to take matters into my own hands. Rebrand my stretchmarks. Not because I think I need to or because I have to, but because I want to. I think it’ll be fun.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go learn to love my boob grooves and buffet lines.

Read This If–The Dead Intrigue You

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

For clarity’s sake, I’m talking about corpses, not The Grateful Dead. Not to say that The Grateful Dead aren’t intriguing. I enjoy their music. But I’ve never read a book about them.

I have, though, read numerous books about the dead. We’re talking books about decomp, morgues, cemeteries, crime scene clean-up, cremation, funeral homes, embalming, all of that fun stuff. Why? I don’t know. I think part of it stems from the fact that I fear things less when I know how they work. I think it’s also morbid curiosity. Mostly, I think it’s because I’m weird. I didn’t freak out when I found my neighbor dead in his yard, but I won’t go to funerals because they keep laying the guest of honor out like a Thanksgiving centerpiece and unlike everyone else, I don’t find that comforting.

Anyway. Here are a few death-centric books that you may find fascinating.

Deadhouse: Life in a Coroner’s Office by John Temple- The book follows three deputy coroners -Ed Strimlan, Mike Chichwak, and Tiffani Hunt- working in a coroner’s office in Pittsburgh. We get to know them, their work, their coworkers, some history of both the field and the area they work, and of course, some grisly details about the cases they investigate -and all the hang-ups that come along with investigating, like the sights, the smells, and the politics.

Obviously, the work fascinates me, but I also really enjoy getting to know our three deputy coroners at the heart of the book. What I really like about the book is how we learn about the work through them. This book came out in 2005, I think, and it’s one of the few books I’ve read several times. In fact, I’m about due for another re-read. Can you have a comfort read about a coroner’s office? If you can, I do, and this is it.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes & Other Lessons From the Crematory by Caitlin Doughty- As a twenty-something with a degree in medieval history and flair for the morbid, Caitlin Doughty took a job in a crematory and quickly found herself pursuing her life’s work. The book provides explanations of the cremation practice, some history involving how people lay their dead to rest, and answers questions you didn’t know you needed the answers to, like how many bodies can you fit in a Dodge van and how do you get cremains out of your clothes?

What I like about this book is that not only is there this demystifying of death happening, but it’s also being demystified by someone as they were learning the ropes of corpse disposal. There were some awkward missteps and she made some mistakes and she owned up to them all in witty fashion. Maybe a book about cremation shouldn’t be amusing, but this one is.

Over My Dead Body: Unearthing the Hidden Histories of America’s Cemeteries by Greg Melville- Working in his hometown cemetery in college led Greg Melville to ponder the rich history of America’s burial grounds. He visited several for the book, including Arlington, Hollywood Forever, Boothill Cemetery, Colonial Jewish Burial Ground, Central Park, and Chapel of the Chimes. Each place of eternal rest exhumed more and more of our country’s history and the final resting places of our dead.

When I first saw this book in Bookpages, I realized that I didn’t really know that much about cemeteries beyond the general notion of that’s where we bury people and you can go sledding in the local one. This book is a fascinating tour of graveyards and their impact on and reflection of society. A cemetery’s history is more than just the people buried there. And even though his family wasn’t always enthused about spending time in these places, I was certainly entertained by the experience.

If you give these books a try, I hope you find them enlivening. If you don’t, well then, just bury it and move on.