Recently, I parcelled out bits and pieces of my inner self to a friendship fresh-plucked from the ether-tree. How new, you ask, (because apparently you’re super-nosy)? Let’s just say I’ve had riper pears in June, though maybe only Niagara soft fruit farmers will get that joke. Nonetheless, it went something like this: C’mere, lean in close to me … now, check these night vision goggles. See that tiny raw thing crouching in the dark alley? Nope, left. Yep, my soul. I trust you won’t plant yer boot there. That might really hurt.

Now, I might be a total goof, but I’m perfectly aware that people have a tendency to sting like red ants when they’re moody. What I did forget was how large a chink in my otherwise impenetrable armour I had revealed.  Dumbass that I am, I made things worse by merrily rolling through this big ole riled-up ant pile, flashing some soft sensitive spots like a nudist covered in mint jelly. OK, the mint jelly part might be silly. Raspberry perhaps–crimson suits me.

So, this morning, I rolled out of bed, poked my stinging chest and thought “who died?”, remembered that I’m a gigantic dillhole–fantastic!– and tried to minimize the impact of one frosty monosyllabic treatment (Frosty Monosyllabic Treatments available at your local spa for only 89.99–now with a free FreshMint Rinse) by pouring myself into a hot bubble bath, there to lurk hippo-like, with only my eyes showing above the water. And there I thought. And mused. Mulled just a bit. OK, it’s totally possible that I obsessed, a lot, but I’ll never tell.

AJ, you nudge, rapidly losing patience with my rambling, what the hairy ratfuck does this have to do with a short story?

Actually, it has a lot to do with a short story, Cursey McSwearsalot (also: how about a little compassion, sheesh, I’m grumpy and I’m tryin’ to milk it!). I was having trouble with the end of this story. This is only my second shortie, and it’s outside my regular genre–in that there’s no gore and sex. I’m not good at shorts yet (sounds like I have no summer fashion sense … and I don’t, so why correct it?)  Well, like any artist, I blew that sting massively out of proportion so I could put that friggin’ angst to work for me: damn right, I did. *flex* That’s “passion”, my friends … if by “passion” you mean “flights of lunacy.”

Of course, I am being silly. I’m a writer, I’m allowed to come unhinged randomly and without much provocation. I swear to you, that’s in the rule book somewhere.  Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t. You be sure to let me know, but please note: until I rebuild this one open spot in my normally iron-clad fortifications, I’m liable to pour the boiling pitch without asking “who goes there?”

Here be the  Shortie . Don’t expect zombies or goblins or perverts (oh my!) today. Like I said, this is a departure for me.  And don’t be afraid to take a flying leap, my sweet readers … where would writers be without our dreams?

(AJ Aalto dreams, and often … she daydreams about sun-warmed raspberries, and lilac trees, and quiet crypts, and poutine. She dreams about one of those things more than she should. Potatoes, gravy,  fat and cheese? Frankly, AJ cannot fathom how anyone wouldn’t dream of poutine, cuz that’s just kooky talk.)