Tag Archives: Steam Punk

#MirthMusicMon – One Good Scare

27 Oct

While touring YouTube this week I came across little videos called Perrysodes. I think they’re taking the Perry the Platypus storylines from Phineas and Ferb episodes, sticking all the little pieces together and releasing them as stand-alone videos. They’re really cute and funny. 🙂

What do you think of this steampunk one?



And just because I get a kick out of this song (and it’s Mirth and Music Monday), here’s Baljeet having a fit after being informed that the for fun, summertime, ‘how to rock’ class he took doesn’t actually have a grading system.



Then finally, because this is the last Monday before Halloween, here’s Phineas trying to cure Isabella’s hiccoughs with a scare… or two.



That’s it for me this week.

Click HERE to see who else has decided to join in on Mirth and Music Monday.

That is also the link you will want to follow if you wish to join in on the merriment.

Have a Great week, Everyone!



P.S. A friend on mine has requested that I send him baby bump photos, so you may be seeing them soon, too. 🙂



Now I get to go deal with the shoe that discovered the existence of cat…leavings…in my driveway. Lots of fun.

I hope your day is going better than mine so far. 🙂




A Hodge-Podge About Life and Writing

21 Mar

Sooo, after spending the majority of the day dealing with a migraine I  finally get around to trying to write a blog post. However, my computer and my internet connection had something of a battle, and now I’m too ticked off at the world in general to write a flash fiction.

Therefore, I am going to talk about something completely different.

I’m just not sure what.

I could talk about how well my current diet erm… eating lifestyle change is going. (The household is following the diet laid out in The 4-Hour Body)

The fact that I’m a little over two belt holes thinner.

Or talk about how my book sales have not been what I had hoped.

Then there’s this fantastic fantasy series I’m reading. (Elisabeth Wheatley sure knows how to weave a plot.)

Perhaps I could touch on the idea of sharing the first few pages of my husband’s portion of a steam punk graphic novel he’s working on (Words only so far. We need an artist.).

Then there’s the undead flash fictions he has been spitting out. (he’s writing circles around me, people!)

Of course there’s the business we’re still hoping to put together in a town very close to where we live. It’s still very hush-hush, but I’m excited! (We thought we almost had it last winter, then federal regulations changed and our supplier had to revamp their product. The scale of our future enterprises has enlarged… hopefully in a good way.  :/  )

I keep thinking I need to whip together some of my steam punk flash fictions and put another book out there. But for some reason my heart isn’t in it at the moment. I’m not sure why. Very confused. I’m also stalled on my other writing projects. Perhaps it’s the approaching spring. Maybe it’s worry over five hundred big and little things. Very likely it’s nothing and I just have to push myself through it. Like most of my projects, I’m pretty sure that the moment I really start to work on it it’s all I’ll be able to think about for a month or two. Kinda like those Carls Jr. commercials, except I may as well wear a big shirt that says “Don’t bother me. I’m writing.”

With it being a lot nicer outside, I won’t feel guilty at the idea of pitching the dogs out the back door and into their pen for an hour or two while I concentrate on a project. You see, I write best alone. However, the dogs hate it when there’s only one person in the house. Especially if they hear my husband getting chores done outside. They don’t leave me alone. It’s like they are trying to make me go outside and bring him back to them. That means that my writing time goes something like this:

Let’s see… she’s just decided what poison to use on… What? Why are you bumping my elbow? Yes. I know he went out that door. No, I’m not going to go get him.

Please stop whining. It’s the most annoying sound on the planet.

Thank you.

Now where was I? Ah, yes… she’s crafting the gelatin dessert, should it be orange or raspberry?  WHAT?! No! I won’t go get him! Please go lay down!

No, the sad eye thing won’t get you anywhere. Knock it off.

I didn’t mean literally!  How did you even manage to tip that over? It was way over there!

No, I did not stand up to let you go outside to find him. Stop barking.


*        *        *

Yeah, so needless to say, this has been a creatively barren winter.


If only they stayed this cute and small:




Wednesday Stew – A Flash Fiction

17 Sep

This is one of the first tiny stories I wrote. I have been working on a small collection of Steam Punk flash fiction (and just decided to do another one on a zombie theme). This one will be in it.

Let me know what you think. 🙂

Here are some storm clouds to set the mood for you. :D

Here are some storm clouds to set the mood for you. 😀

*            *            *

Wednesday Stew


Andrew splashed through the muddy streets as the rain fell in bucket sized drops around him. All he could think about was his permanent room at the boarding house, and the hearty stew and corn bread Mrs. Lester made on Wednesdays. With his overnight bag thumping against his back with every bound, he leaped over the more treacherous mud holes in the pitted dirt road toward his home away from home.

Getting to the steps he scrubbed his boots good and well before opening the door, and letting the warm, goodness of her cooking envelope him. Life as a Dirigible Captain had its rough parts, but making it to Mrs. Lester’s dining room was the welcome respite at the apex of every week.

Dropping his bag beside the bench in the entry hall, and hanging his dripping coat and hat on the hooks above it Andrew was very thankful that he had one of the few steady routes. It took two days to take supplies and passengers from Spelling, Connecticut to Tellana, Georgia, and two days back again. If things went smoothly. If they didn’t…well, then he dealt with things, and made it to his midweek lodgings to find a small cast iron pot of stew with a crust of cornbread over the top sitting in the oven. The meat and vegetables may change every week, but the mouth watering aroma, and the made with love attention to taste did not.

“Is that Mr. Anderson I hear stomping about out there?” Called his hostess.

“It is, Mrs. Lester. I made it back for your good cookin’.”

“Sweet talker.” She chided, but he could hear the smile in her voice before he made it through the sitting room and into the dining room to see it on her face. She had set the huge pot on the trivet next to her seat, and was waiting for him with her arms wide for a hug. Andrew wrapped his arms around her and lifted her slightly off her feet, inhaling the wonderful smell of cinnamon and soap that clung to the plump old woman.

“You should get a wife. Then you wouldn’t be so eager for my poor fare.”

Setting her back on the floor, he grinned and said, “If I could find a girl who cooked as well as you, I would marry her on the spot.”

She waggled a finger at him. “Careful, one of these days a young lady might think you’re serious with that offer.”

“I am!” Putting a hand to his heart and striking a poets pose, he proclaimed, “Beauty fades, charm is fleeting. But a woman who can cook? She’s a woman worth keeping.”

Mrs. Lester gave his arm a playful slap. “Sit down. I don’t want you to have to eat cold food.”

Andrew chose his regular seat, and a maid came out of the kitchen with a fresh plate of biscuits, and a bowl, spoon and cup for him.

While pouring himself a glass of lemonade he exchanged small pleasantries with the six random passers-by who were seated around the table, all a little taken aback by the sudden change in their stoic hostess. Bustling around, she came and filled his bowl to almost overflowing, then went back to every other guest and asked if they would like a little more. “You’ll want to top off if you even might have a little room for more. Mr. Anderson here, could eat an entire pot of this on his own. So, just make sure you put away your fair share before he finishes it all off.”

Andrew chuckled, and split open a corn biscuit and slathered it with soft yellow butter. Biting into it, he sighed as the sweetness of the corn meal blended with the sharp saltiness of the creamy butter. After finishing it off with six bites, he dove head first into the long awaited bowl of stew. It took a few moments, but he began to realize that there was something different about this week’s batch. When he finally came up for air, about half way through the bowl, he asked, “Mrs. Lester, what did you do differently?”

“To what, dear?”

“To the stew? There’s something different.”

“Oh, it’s just the usual in-dey-go Wednesday stew.”

“Well whatever you did, I like it.”

“That’s good. Now eat the rest before it gets cold.”

Giving a mock salute with his spoon, he said, “Yes, Ma’am.”

The other occupants of the room seemed a little bemused, but after seeing how quickly Andrew had put away that bowl of food, they each in turn asked for those seconds they had been too prim to accept.

It took three bowls of stew and five biscuits of satisfy his hunger. With a hand on his belly, and a smile on his face, he congratulated Mrs. Lester on surpassing herself.

“Well, thank you, honey, but I didn’t cook it.”

Confusion flickered across his face. “If you didn’t…”

“’Tilda, sugar, could you come out here for a moment?”

As the maid once again entered the room, Andrew stood to his feet. Crossing to her side, he asked, “Did you cook dinner?”

Shyly the petite, brown haired, brown eyed Matilda nodded her head. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“What’s your full name and age?”

“Matilda Jane Ashcroft, I turned 19 last week.”

“Nineteen. That’s a good age. Do you do anything besides cook?”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Lester has been training me to do all sorts of things around this old place. And Mama already made sure I can sew, knit, mend, clean, cook, garden. Just last month we canned the fruit preserves from our…”

“And you cooked this delicious dinner.”

Looking into his eyes with a hint of puzzlement in her own, she said, “Yes, sir, we already established that fact.”

Chuckling he said, “Yes, we did. Miss Ashcroft, is your Daddy still alive?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I believe I have a question to ask him in the morning.” Picking up her hand he kissed the palm. Turning to Mrs. Lester he said, “You, Madam, are one smart woman. You have bested a confirmed bachelor. Congratulations.”

Mrs. Lester just sat there and chuckled.

*            *            *

😀 What did you think?



Daydreaming: A Key to Creativity

13 Sep

I came across this video while searching for a certain music video for a past post. It got me to thinking. I would like you to watch it, then we can discuss it.




So basically what Jonah Lehrer is saying is that the mind comes up with creative things better and faster when we let it do a little wandering. There is a need for daydreaming, following that trail of what-ifs, just staring out the window watching the birds on the feeder.

If this is the case, what are some ways we can relax our brains so they can bring up our more imaginative ideas?

Jonah mentions taking walks, daydreaming, and staring out train windows. Are there other ways we can let our minds wander?

  • How about that lovely zen-ed out couple minutes while you wash your hair. (although for me it’s more than a couple minutes, since my hair is waist length.)
  • Listening to the rain.
  • Relaxing to your favorite music.
  • Those few moments when you are on the edge of sleep.
  • Thinking of nothing in particular while sitting in your recliner.
  • Just staring across the room at a random object.

This last one helped me write a piece of flash fiction (a story that’s, I believe, under 2,000 words long). I was trying to come up with an idea, but nothing was happening. I set my chin into my hand and stared across the room at a pile of random papers. Peeking out from the pile was part of a stage coach, that got me thinking about the wild west. Well, what is one of the best known stage coaches in modern advertising? TheWells Fargo’s logo. Now I am thinking of a bank in the old west. From there I thought about a steam punk outfit my husband and I had discussed making for me. Now I’m thinking of a woman, in a Victorian steam punk outfit in a bank in the old west. Now what could bring about some kind of problem in a bank. Duh, a gun. How would we introduce a gun into the situation?

Well, why don’t you read it for yourself?


A Misunderstanding at the Bank

She walked into the one and only bank in all of New Wells, Colorado, head held high, shoulders back. Walking like a woman in a new dress, which she was. A high necked number in burgundy, with a black leather waist coat, and black and white patent leather ankle boots. In her right hand she held a brown valise. It seemed to be a little heavy for her comfort, but she was darned if she was going to let it show on her face.

The lady in the new dress walked expediently up to the teller on the left, and set her bag on the counter to the right of the clerk’s window. The clerk, a skittish man in his mid thirties, was always afraid when a woman approached his window. They were either confused as to what they wanted, or had a tendency to try and bluster or wheedle more out of him than he should extend. Either way, women made him nervous.

This one really made him sweat. She seemed to have been sewn into that red dress, and her manor of walking told him that here was a woman who was used to being in control of situations. Since he was rarely in control, this type of person made him feel twitchy.

“Hello, Mister…” She glanced at the little pin on his shirt, “Popskie. My name is Miss Delia Anne Walters, and I would like to open an account here today.”

Taking his kerchief out of his pocket and swiping it over his upper lip, he replied, “Very well, Miss Walters. How much would you be putting into your new account?”

With a satisfied smile, she opened her valise, and began digging through its contents. “I have $300.” After a few moments the smile started to fade into mild frustration. “It was on top a few minutes ago.” Now the innards of the bag were being pulled out and placed in a neat line along her side of the counter. A bottle of perfume, smelling salts, a compact, a paper bag which smelled of peppermint, and there were a few more things, but Mr. Popskie’s vision narrowed to include only one of her items. A brand new, fully charged lightning pistol.

While she was busy grumbling into the seemingly bottomless pit that was her bag, he quietly reached a hand beneath his register and pressed the alarm. Without taking his eyes off her gun, he reached into his vest pocket and retrieved his kerchief.

Miss Walters, on the other hand, finally got hold of her envelope of crisp new twenty dollar bills. Pulling her head and right arm out of her bag, she waved it in front of herself triumphantly. “Ha ha! It thought it could hide!”

Turning her attention now to putting her varied objects back into her bag. She did not see the sheriff and two of his deputies walk quietly in the front door. She thought everything was going to go smoothly, until she picked up her little pistol and was about to put it back in with its travel mates. That’s when the Sheriff said, “Stop right there, Miss.”

Looking around in confusion, she turned to see two powder rifles, and a large lightning pistol aimed straight at her own self.

“Lower your weapon, and step away from Popskie.”

“Lower my…?”

“Put your weapon down, Miss, and no one will get hurt.”

“I was just…”

“Well now you are going to drop it on the floor, and kick it to me.”

“Why on Earth would I drop this perfectly good, brand new pistol on the floor? Don’t you know that’s a terrible thing to do to a gun? Not to mention that it might go off.” Shaking her head, she turned back around and dropped it back into her bag. Swiping her envelope of cash off the counter, she also put that into her bag. Closing it with a snap and a huff, she pulled it off the little ledge, and marched straight for the door.

“Of all the hair-brained things.” Giving the door a shove, she walked straight through, and headed for the train station.

Mr. Popskie sighed and sagged against his desk. With shaking hands he wiped the beads of sweat off his face. “Thank you, Sheri…” Catching the look in the Sheriff’s eyes he didn’t have the nerve to finish.

“Popskie, did she SAY she was going to rob the bank?”

Giving his head a shake, he replied, “N, no.”

“Did she hand you a note that implied such an intention?”

Again, shaking his head, Mr. Popskie had to answer no.

“Then why did you press the alarm?”

Pointing to the counter before the Sheriff, he said, “She, she…”

“Had a gun.” The Sheriff shook his head. Rubbing a sudden pain above his left eye, he said in exasperated accents, “Mr. Popskie, this is Colorado. It is quite possible that YOU are the only person in this entire state who does not own a gun of one kind or another. And would you two quit snickering back there?! For the love of…Mr. Popskie, I really think you ought to move back east.”


*            *            *

What are some ways you zone out to find creative inspiration?

And, if it’s not too much to ask, what did you think of my little story?



This Hangnail is Driving Me Crazy!!!

26 Jul

Now that I have that out of the way…


The only writing I accomplished today was adding a few paragraphs to a short story I’m thinking of using for blog posts next week.  I may actually stick with this plan, or I may pound out a several pager that will work even better (the night before VBS starts *eye roll*).  I’m never really sure about these things.


I was wondering why I feel so tired, but then I reviewed today’s events, now it makes sense.

Over the course of the day I’ve had a migraine, gone shopping twice, attended a meeting, read several stories to a niece, visited with two of my sisters, and helped my husband empty and defrost a deep freezer.  No wonder I feel so tired.  Turning in a little early sounds good.


Could the word ‘I’ have possibly been stuck in there a few more times?!?



I (lol) have a question for my beloved, eclectic, followers: if you were to steam punk a top hat, what two things would you consider essential?  Would you perhaps want a pair of goggles, or a small magnifying glass, a pocket watch on a chain, or is there something else which you would consider a steam punk necessity?


On another note…

Who here has read and loved a short children’s book called Sleeping Ugly?


And just for some amazingness:


Some people get all the coordination…   😉


The Circle of Words, Among Other Things

23 Jul
From the Before to the After of a fit of inspired writing.

From the Before to the After, a fit of inspired writing.


Roiling and boiling these thoughts bubble deep.

While tossing and turning they occupy my sleep.

This is nothing new

I have no other view

Twisting and spinning they build new worlds.

An artificial life, my mind unfurls.

My mind stews

Waiting for cues

I can no longer contain the words

They fall out in one long surge

Thoughts glow

Words flow

My mind, left spent and reeling

Has a peculiar empty feeling

Perhaps a snack

And then a nap




Roiling and boiling these thoughts bubble deep…


*            *            *


Today felt more like a Sunday than a Monday.  After a morning spent surfing Facebook and Twitter, fiddling around but accomplishing nothing solid, I decided to try this speech to text program again.  For some odd reason it’s working much better today.  My fingers are crossed that this new trend will continue.


As you can see I managed to be creative today.  Along with this poem I have also crafted a little piece of flash fiction.  Steam punk flash fiction to be exact.  I did not realize that mini-stories could be so much fun to write!


Going back to the subject of Sunday, we went and saw the new movie REDS 2.  I would highly recommend it to anyone who likes shoot-em-ups but cannot stand blood and gore.  I’m kind of hoping for a third movie.  Did I say kind of? I meant really.


*the mic thumps, and the speakers squeak*

Do we have any steam punk fans in the audience tonight?


For those of you who saw REDS 2 what are your thoughts?