2 questions down, 1 to go

After yesterday's complete debilitating migraine I have had to split today in half - today was meant to be my relaxing day with very little to do except read and write, but hey it turns out, the gods had other things in mind.

So first part of today was spent completing Question 3 of Final Legal Assignment. I still have question 2 to do but will be able to research that even more on Sunday and Monday.

And for now, the rest of the afternoon will look like this: read a bit more on the very excellent The Fall by Michael McBride from Snowbooks, make a light lunch as my innards are still not coping after yesterday's illness, maybe have a nap, oh, decorate the succesfully baked butterfly cake which I did early this morning at around eight, make dinner for my exceedingly hard working husband who does not look a day over 30. Read some more, transcribe some handwritten novel notes onto computer (reminder: must rename work in progress) fool around with one or two ideas for musemuggers short and later this evening, relax with some popcorn to watch Criminal Minds.

Bliss.

Even Cowgirls get the Blues

This is something I wrote earlier on for my online writing group over at livejournal.

It's darker and angrier than anything I've done in quite a while.

I hated him with all my being. My soul ached to smash him into the ground and dance on his grave. I concentrated on those weak blue eyes peering at me myopically and pictured in my heart of hearts the pain I’ve had to endure and all the tears spilled in vain. His hand wavered. The leather belt that a moment ago hung suspended in the air, ready to cut into me, now dangled limply between us. The blow never fell. I saw him for what he was: a fading caricature of a little man with a balding head and wiry black chest hair who lived a small mean life. I felt nothing but contempt. My shoulders were squared, my back rigid, mostly because of pain; scabs do not form overnight. I’ve practiced my shit-eating stare in clubs and in front of my cracked mirror. I will not back down. Instead he just looks away for a moment before shoving past me. Worse than your fucking useless dead mother, he spits. Get my fucking tea on, he orders, like he’s a king and I’m his slave. I don’t even look at him, afraid that I might take a swing at him. For a second I’m tempted to yell at him, to shake him until his head pops off. Instead I turned to the door where my small backpack with all my earthly belongings sat. My scuffed guitar case lounged against the wall, like a drunken mate. I didn’t think. I was screaming too much on the inside. I picked up the backpack, swung it onto my shoulder and adjusted my grip on the guitar case handle in my hand. My silence roared at him as I gently clicked the door shut behind me. I fished my house keys out of my pocket and pushed them back through the door and walked down the street in true cowgirl fashion, on my own, into the sunset.

I have been asked to point out that this is not autobiographical.