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Sick kids (apparently) create a sick mom. So far my hubby hasn't caught it yet. It's only a head cold, but for about a day and a half in the middle of it when breathing is impossible and everything tastes like cardboard, the will to do more than get out of bed for snacks and bathroom breaks is completely M.I.A. My oldest had it last week and stayed home from school on her yucky day. My youngest and I have it this week, with my yucky day hitting on Tuesday and hers happening on Thursday.
All that busy-ish stuff aside, my little negative voice in the back of my head is trying hard to tell me that I should feel bad about this not being a Very Productive Week, so I'm going to put it in writing - right here in the blog where everyone can see it - that my little negative voice is wrong. If it was right, I wouldn't have all the above to tell you about, and this post wouldn't be here. Those little negative voices can be such little liars sometimes. I shut mine up by eating breakfast (I've discovered it gets louder when I don't eat, so now I'm trying to think of it as "feeding me is healthier than feeding a negative"... I guess I'll see how that goes.)
Hope you have a great weekend! 4. Ties & Binds
“Back away, Nazario,” Quintus cautioned the young man he was standing beside. The old Legionnaire didn’t want to move until Brasus unlocked their swords and stepped back. Unmarried and without any children of his own, the last thing Quintus needed was for his selected heir to be killed this morning.
“No need, Abelardus,” Avilius Victrix stated as he released the slave’s hair and walked over to his seat at the head of the table. Quintus sheathed his own sword before taking the one out of Brasus’s hands to return to the proper owner. Avilius was watching the young freeman closely as Brasus helped the slave adjust the wrapping so the baby was again pressed to her front. The Centurions were waved away, no further words spoken to them, and Quintus followed out his commanders. The promised funding was already waiting for them at the front doors, so he took a firm grip on his corner of the chest and he and the other three Legionnaires carried the heavy box down to the waiting cart. They loaded and tied the box in place, not even bothering to speak from long familiarity with the task. A friend that worked in the house hurried down the stairs as the Legionnaires lined up to leave, ducking his head to tell Quintus what had occurred in the short time since they’d left Brasus behind. Quintus only nodded and thanked him, hiding his relief completely, and then turned and followed the cart out of the yard.
***
Brasus stared at the old man. Somewhere in the moments since he’d been told to pick up the coins, he realized the rumors of this patrician were likely truths. The compliment regarding his paternal instincts and the question to confirm his status as single, both of which preceded the command about the coins, were suddenly weighted with broken glass. Brasus stooped to pick up the purse, taking the presented opportunity to wrap an arm around the slave he’d traded the colt for as he straightened. Avilius Victrix only looked amused at the gesture.
“I’ll allow you to purchase her price through labor,” Avilius stated. “I’ll allow for your use of her as a wet nurse during your internment as long as you do what I say, when I say.” Hurried footsteps rushed away from the closed door, the sounds too quiet for Avilius to hear, but likely belonging to Quintus’s long-standing friend who had been in the hall when Brasus had been shown in. Brasus assumed a submissive poise and stared at the end of the table he was closest to, the wood grain becoming familiar. He currently had no options other than to comply. Returning the payment had already been rejected. Rejecting the offer would kill the woman, which in turn would kill his son. “May I be allowed to send word to my father so he knows the length of my absence to expect?” Brasus asked, his tone politely civil. “That will be seen to,” Avilius replied. He stood and came around the table, stopping to speak directly into Brasus’s ear. His whisper was barely more than a breath. “Strong fathers breed strong sons. You will wed, today, the woman I put beside you. Your next child by that wife will be my unrelated heir should my own son not return from whatever adventure he’s engaged in. If you tell anyone of this, I will slaughter every single one of your bloodline.” Brasus stared hard at the table and tried not to throw up. He knew well the stories around the son that Avilius Victrix had lost, and enough of the politics around the Avilius family to want to stay far from being involved. Except now he was involved… deeply. “I trust that my heir will be as well defended as yours,” Avilius continued, just as quietly, as he reached out and cupped his empty palm against the bulge in the wrapping that was the baby’s head.
***
Rishima learned the language quickly – she had always learned languages quickly, so counted that as lucky – and worked at the chores that she was tasked with every day. The work was shared among many women, a few of whom also had babes of their own, and almost seemed less than what had been required of her during her short marriage due to the others she worked beside.
Her madman entered servitude as well, and was beaten – often – during the first year despite having been wed almost immediately upon entering the Avilius home – into a marriage ordered by Avilius – where they now lived. She found out the situation slowly, piecing together details that anyone would tell her, of what had befallen and caused their internment together: her madman had traded the horse for her that day. Avilius had already paid for the colt, so a theft had occurred. Unlike her idiot husband, her madman had admitted his guilt and accepted the consequences. He was working harder than she had seen any man do to rectify his fault in the matter, so she ensured he saw the face of his son every day because of that. Because so few men she had met would trade their own lives for a single child, she made certain that the child she loved as her own saw the man who was his father. Somewhere during that year, her madman’s marriage became forced and unhappy. Many of the other slaves shook their heads in wonderment that they didn’t divorce, as was common in this culture when a marriage stagnated. Rishima counted that commitment to remain married as another quality of her madman. Rather than speak ill of him along with the others, she would simply tend to his meals and ensure his clothes were clean. His efforts made him a husband to be proud of, and the spoilt girl he had been wed to was a disappointment. She moaned about the house and yard, lamenting her fate and crying over no longer being a virgin who could serve at the temple of her choice. Rishima’s opinion in the matter was not popular, however, so she kept the words in her thoughts from emerging from her mouth. She stored the whispered thanks and quiet praises from her madman in the corner of her heart and worked as hard as she needed to so that he was not punished any further on her behalf. Then, when the expected occurred and his wife began to often spurn him from their bed, Rishima was rewarded with gaining her madman’s attention as well. Their trysts were as hurried and secreted as his praises, leaving no belief that genuine affection was involved, but she convinced herself that shared pride in each other was a longer standing emotion. She’d seen affections waver and fly away many times, but pride in one another held people together. Very early in their second year of servitude, her monthly bleedings stopped and the sickness from her first pregnancy returned. She was sick only for an hour or so in the afternoons, and for a couple of months rather than the entire pregnancy, but her belly grew rounder with each passing week. Her madman didn’t share in her joy of a sibling for the tiny boy who was quickly growing to be a small child, his concern of one dead wife plain to see, but little Magnus grew stronger with each passing day and Rishima was certain that she would mother this next child as well. Her own pregnancy was likely half done when the monthly bleedings of Brasus’s wife also stopped. Rishima felt room in her heart grow for that child as well. She was accustomed to the culture of many wives and many children from all of them, but Brasus was the only one in the entire house who seemed to understand that she was excited for this new child – often more excited than he and his wife seemed.
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3. The Father's Sins
Brasus bore his father’s wrath without complaint. The chastising was expected and warranted, and – if roles were reversed – then Brasus assumed he would have much the same reaction. The man who’d already paid for the colt Brasus had sold was not someone that Brasus should have cheated, and his father was as scared as he was angry. Brasus collected all his coins from where he’d hidden them around the house and yard, went around the city to call in the few debts that he was owed from friends as well, and by the sunrise of the next morning he had pulled together the full amount of the colt which had already been paid.
Brasus joked toward his younger sisters as the two of them either pursed their lips or glared at him, alternating between one and the other for who continued the chastising his father had started last night. The woman he’d bought yesterday brought his son to him at the entrance to his father’s home as he was preparing to depart, the same as she had last night when he’d left to collect on the debts he was owed, and how she had when he’d come home again. He cupped his son’s head in his palm and sincerely thanked her, already looking forward to when he would return later this morning to have her bring his son again. His sisters flanked the woman, each taking one of her elbows to hand and kindly guiding her toward the table for breakfast between calling over their shoulders to him as they continued their parting comments to end the chastising. His father had given him the correct words to say in apology, and Brasus carried the easy hope of youth that his actions would be forgiven. He hurried through the morning streets to the home of his father’s customer, practicing the needed words in his head, and was nearly confident when he arrived outside the fence into the yard that he should have been at yesterday afternoon. He was allowed entry to the yard immediately and brought directly into the house upon announcing his arrival. When the door opened and he was ushered into the room where the patrician who had paid for the horse was breakfasting, he was overwhelmed with the impression that he had just interrupted something of importance. Three Legionnaires stood nearby the patrician, all officers, all patricians, and none looked happy about the intrusion. “Speak,” the patrician ordered. Brasus recounted his father’s apology to the letter, and then held out the purse containing the price of the colt, his head and shoulders bowed. The patrician nodded to one of the Legion officers, who stepped over and took the purse. The coins were dumped on the table and counted – twice – before being returned to the purse. “The sum is correct,” the officer stated. “That is of little surprise,” the patrician replied. The room waited in silence for him to continue speaking. He pushed back his plate and studied the young man before him. “And yet, I am still without my colt.” The purse was slapped against Brasus’s chest and held there. Brasus stared at the Legion officer, startled out of polite aversion of his eyes, and slowly moved to take the coins back into his own hand. “So what do I own in place of the colt?” Brasus clamped his mouth shut and stared at the floor as he thought. His father had advised him to avoid any personal information when dealing with customers, and especially with this one. By all rights, though, the question was a valid one. “Speak honestly and in full, young Nazario,” a kind voice warned. Brasus glanced over his shoulder to where the voice had originated and saw four more Legionnaires beside the door that he hadn’t noticed when he’d been shown in. The man who had spoken was one that Brasus knew well – Quintus Abelardus had been like an uncle to him since he’d been a small boy. When he turned his face forward again, he simply stared at the end of the table that was closest to him, memorizing the grain of the wood. “My wife left this life while birthing our son yesterday just before dawn,” Brasus told the table. “There was no wet nurse, and none that we found. My living son was swaddled in the linen shroud with his dead mother. I traded the colt for that nursing mother who killed the gladiator yesterday.” Brasus didn’t know at what point during when he’d just been speaking that he’d looked up, but when he fell silent he knew he’d been holding the patrician’s gaze for longer than he should have. He returned to staring at the end of the table. “Send for my slave,” the patrician quietly ordered.
***
Rishima didn’t know why everyone was upset when she had to go, but she quickly followed the man leading her as they hurried through the city, the tiny boy snugly wrapped against her. The home she was brought to was much richer than the one she had left, and the people here much quieter. Nobody said anything to her, and very few looked at her. She was immediately wary.
Her madman stood quietly, every part of him hunched defensively as he was trying to stand normally, and the purse of coins he had stayed up all night collecting was in his hand. The room was occupied with many soldiers, her madman, and an old man who walked with a straight back. The old man was grey-haired and clean shaven. His lightly colored eyes glared at her. He made a show of inspecting her from all sides, the few comments he said making most of the soldiers smirk and her madman glare harder at a spot on the floor. “I have no need of a wet nurse,” the patrician stated. His hands moved quickly, the left yanking the slave back by her hair and the right producing a knife from the hiding place within the folds of his toga. Brasus opened his hand to release the purse as he twisted to rip the nearest sword from the sheath, spinning back with an upward strike meant to remove the patrician’s arm above the elbow before the knife could descend on the woman – and the baby she was holding. The clang of sword blades rang dully, the upward strike stopped before impacting on the intended target, the bag of coins hitting the floor a moment later. The blades were both in the way of the swing continuing for the knife, though, so Brasus considered the action acceptable in spite of the swords he heard being quickly drawn behind him. The patrician looked at the crossed blades just beneath his armpit, a grin creasing one of his cheeks when he focused further down at where the slave was bowed backwards over the end of the table. Rishima waited in the black quiet following the clang of the sword blades locking. There were only the sounds of startled breathing and more swords being drawn. The only physical feelings she noted were the hand in her hair, the hard wood of the table pressing painfully against her elbows and the top of her head, and the cold tiles of the floor under the balls of her arched feet. The tiny boy suddenly writhed against her back, where she had twisted the wrapping to as soon as she’d seen the knife and closed her eyes. She took her first breath since being grabbed, but didn’t shift a muscle from arching protectively over the tiny boy.
It's so nice to be back to having short stories running again. :) Honestly, titling things is what I find the hardest part of the job, and using the short story title as a blog title is so much less stress lol.
This week... this week... let's see... not a lot of writing happened. I'm starting therapy with who I'm hoping will be my regular psychologist in February, but had an interim check-in this past Tuesday. I struggle with anxiety, have been somewhat drowning in grief (although after a year at home that's less front-and-center and more random blindsiding), and some teenage eating issues flared hard at the end of 2018. My interim check-in touched on each of these, with a focus on getting back to not fighting myself to be allowed to eat, and I got homework from that therapist which took up most of my brain. Good news for me? Self awareness makes the homework easier. Bad news for me? There's probably going to be a lot of homework once my regular sessions start. So I guess that's kinda good news, too? Why am I putting this in a blog? Because positive mental health, self care, and getting help when needed is a good thing which I think needs to be talked about. I'm not helping my body, my health, my mental state, or my family when I don't eat. What not eating does do, is give my anxiety a comfortable place to grow. I don't need to be feeding my anxiety - I have the usual happenings of the Universe for keeping my anxiety well-fed. Talking about things shines light on the stuff that would like to stay hidden in shadows; like depression, anxiety, and that inner voice that doesn't say anything nice. I'm not too upset that there wasn't much writing this week. There was a conscious effort for unblocking myself from myself so I can start spending good times with my family. And I starting thinking about being comfortable eating more than twice a day, especially what that would look like for future me because what worked in the past isn't helping anymore. I'm not at the point of being healthy with myself yet, but I can see getting there. Hope you have a good and a safe weekend!
Not everything is good all the time. Sometimes you need to talk about it:
(This is just a list I found online - please check and update as needed for your area)
2. The Madman
Brasus wrote the trade quickly on the offered page, signing after the woman’s previous owner had. He handed the lead rope to the man he’d just sold the horse to and stooped to grab the arm of the woman he’d just bought.
She slapped at his arm as he pulled her to her feet. He slapped her when she wouldn’t stand on her own, drawing blood at the corner of her mouth, and then clamped a hand around her wrist and led her back the way he had just come. She tripped and stumbled the entire way to the house, still crying. He ignored the questions, stares, and demands as he pulled her into the yard and through the house to where his wife was being prepared for burial, his son squirming and still crying where he was tied into the linens with her. The woman he had bought fought against him as he pulled her toward the table. He dropped her and held her in place under his foot as he took up a nearby knife and cut open the linens, lifting his son from the shroud and holding him close with the hand not holding the knife. Brasus dropped to the floor, straddling the woman he’d bought so she couldn’t rise to her feet and run. Rishima inhaled to scream. She was pinned to the floor by the madman who had taken a knife to the corpse on the table above her. Everyone in this house had been shouting at them as they passed. She’d shoved up to sitting when his foot had come off her, and now his weight settled on her thighs. She couldn’t move, couldn’t run, couldn’t – She looked down at the source of the cry that had just shattered her panic. Her scream came out in a whimper. The madman threw away the knife. She looked at his face and saw… every emotion she was going through etched into his features. The babe in his arm was newly born – likely within hours – but had been in the shroud with… likely the mother who had died birthing him. The madman looked at his son with hope, and then turned his gaze to the milk staining the clothes she had been put in this morning. The stains were growing by the moment as the babe wailed. Rishima cried at the sight of the tiny boy. She had seen the horse her life had been traded for. Horses she knew due to her father’s successful business – and her husband’s failed one. That horse would have bought four wives of her status and family position. She looked at the man holding the babe. He hadn’t traded the horse for her at all. She pulled the shoulder lacings loose on the strange clothing she had been given and slipped her arms free of the cloth so the top fell to her waist. She cooed and shushed to the tiny boy, scooping her arms around him and pressing him close to her breast. He latched quickly, demanding the needs of his small body be met. She hooked a finger into his mouth and adjusted the hold he had on her nipple to something comfortable for her. He ate greedily, gorging himself until he vomited and then demanding more. Her son had not been so easy; he had taken days to latch so well, and he had always seemed so confused about burping when he finished. This boy finished his second feeding, curled to her chest between her breasts when she lifted him, and burped without waking. She looked at the man who was kneeling over her legs as he pressed his hand gently to his son’s head, ignoring the people who were yelling at him in angry tones. He may very well prove to be a madman, she considered, but when his eyes met hers she knew that he was not an idiot. She held the babe tighter and dropped her head to cry, smelling the newness of the tiny boy with every breath. When the madman took her arm to pull her to her feet, she stood quickly. When someone reached to take the baby from her, he stopped them with a word. When they tried again he pushed them back hard enough that they fell, and then he stepped sideways so that she was suddenly behind him. His voice was little better than a growl when he spoke. Then he took her arm again to pull that she would walk beside him and nobody approached her. He led her through the house to a room near the back which was dominated by a large bed. He closed the door to the room and walked around, pointing to things like the wash basin and piss pot and speaking words she didn’t understand. He quickly made an empty cot into a bed, topping the new bed with a clean outfit that was otherwise identical to the dirty and bloody one she was wearing. Eventually, he took the babe from her and simply nodded to the wash basin. She gladly stripped from the clothes she had thought she was going to die in and washed the sand and blood from her skin, dressing into the new outfit once she felt clean. When she turned around, he was lying on his side on the large bed with the sleeping babe nestled in the crook of his arm. He was simply enthralled with the sight of the tiny boy sleeping against his chest. He kissed the babe’s head and then closed his eyes and silently cried himself to sleep, a pained smile pulling at his mouth. Rishima moved cautiously to the small cot that he had given her and lay down. She looked around the room once more before closing her eyes. This house, this situation, this man… this was not the life she had expected. She cried quietly as exhaustion pulled her into sleep. The babe’s cries woke her a few hours later. She simply rolled from the cot, loosed the ties at her shoulders, pulled the boy from his father’s embrace and held him to her breast. The child quieted immediately and she simply sat down to watch the tiny boy suckle until he was full and heavy in her arms. He was so little, even smaller than her son had been, but there was strength in his grip when she pressed her finger into his palm. She watched out the small window toward the setting sun, ignoring the unfamiliar buildings and strange hills beyond them. Her father was a proud man and – she had always believed – a good man. Her mother and the rest of his wives were strong women, all of them proud of their marriages. When his second wife had died, the other six had each joined honestly in mourning her. A few days after her death, Rishima had seen the newest wife, her father’s seventh, quietly praying at a strange time to be doing so. Being young, Rishima had asked the wife why she was praying, crying, and smiling, all at the same time. Aakanksha had hugged Rishima closely. “My first son died last year, you remember?” Aakanksha asked. Rishima had nodded. “So I am praying for Eeshta to find him and raise him up for me, now that she is dead too.” Rishima didn’t know the name of the mother for the son she was holding right now, but she prayed very hard for that mother to find her son and raise him up for her. She added the promise of caring for the boy in her arms as her own, for however long this tiny boy’s father asked her to. She prayed as hard as she could as the sun set. The answer from the mother of the tiny boy, one of acceptance, filled her heart as the madman’s palm settled over her spine between her shoulders and he looked around her elbow to smile carefully at her tearstained face. She realized when she felt him move as he sat up that she had been so distracted with the baby that she was sitting on the large bed, but he didn’t try to send her away. She smiled at the baby and lifted him just enough to cuddle his soft hair between her shoulder and her cheek. The tiny boy promptly ruined the perfect moment by relieving his bladder and bowels, and Rishima burst out laughing. She was going to have to find his swaddlings soon, or she would be spending all of her time cleaning.
1. The Nursemaid
Rishima stood up and faced forward. This was not what she had thought her life would be. This was not how she wanted to die. She tightened the grip on the sword in her hand and straightened her shoulders.
She was her father’s thirteenth daughter, born to his fifth wife. She had been proud of her father, of her family, and their place in the world she knew. She had taken her lessons seriously when she learned to dance. She had taken the training seriously when she had been taught of sex and the pleasures of the body. She had taken her life seriously when she had been married as a first wife to the man that her father chose for her. Even when she had realized that her father had made a mistake, she had taken what she had inside of herself and dedicated everything to improving the man she was married to. She had kindled a child, and still kept their home well in spite of being sick from the time of conception until the time of birthing. She had worked harder than she had ever imagined possible to support and care for her husband. Her husband was still an idiot. He had ruined himself, and he had destroyed her in the process. His business dealings had ended with both of them in chains, their newborn son in her shackled arms, as they were thrown in a cart and shunted further from anything familiar than she could have imagined was possible. Her world had become much larger. Men at her father’s banquets often spoke of the largeness of the world and the extent of their travels, and she had made a journey in the cart that only those who traded to other cultures had recounted. Not just other tribes, but cultures so far away that the languages, laws, clothing, and tools were different. Her idiot husband had tried to lie to and cheat a trader from one of those distant places. The trader had discovered the cheat, and Rishima and her husband were put in chains to pay the debt. And her son… her son… The roaring of the crowd pulled her out of her lapse into her memories. She didn’t know where she was. She had traveled so far that she was lost forever to her family and her home. The stone walls around her now were too high to climb and the doors were all heavy wood or iron bars that she couldn’t get through. The crowd was cheering because her son had been ripped from her arms, gutted and tossed away like a toy. The man her husband was supposed to have been fighting was who the crowd was cheering for. Her idiot husband, who had pissed himself and then been stabbed through when that man had lunged at him. Then that man had taken her son from her arms, so she had picked up the sword her idiot husband had dropped beside her while he’d been pissing. Then she stood up. Rishima looked at the man who was many steps away and raised her chin. She was her father’s daughter. She was a proud daughter from a proud family. This was not the life she wanted. This was not a death she could accept. She did not want to die with an idiot. The man laughed at her, pointing at her, and the crowd laughed with him. He walked over to attack her as though she were a joke and as she spun away she slashed his leg. She had taken her dancing seriously when she had learned. He attacked faster so she dodged faster, spinning away and cutting him again. The crowd grew confused and quiet as she twisted away from the man’s sword blade, keeping her feet in place, only to rise back to standing straight and drive the blade she was holding through his ribs. She did not accept dying beside an idiot
***
Brasus walked without seeing. Yesterday he had been a husband and an expectant father. This morning he had become a widower, and his living child had been wrapped in the death linens of his dead wife because there was no wet nurse. Now, at nearly midday, he was walking through town because he had been sent to deliver the horse that was quietly following him. He had only gone to get away from the weakening wails of his son.
The gladiators were fighting today, but the roaring of the crowd held little interest while his mind was so very occupied with other matters. Usually he would have stopped to make his own bets, but today wasn’t usual. The roaring cheers turned to laughter and jeers as he remembered his tiny son being swaddled for death only an hour earlier. He looked up, angry at their mocking, and watched through the iron bars of the gate as the crowd favorite collapsed and the laughter stuttered to a stop. A woman appeared in his line of sight as the gladiator fell. She was dark skinned, black haired, and holding the sword that had killed the crowd favorite. The front of her tunic was dirty, bloody and… milk stained. A man nearby yelled wordlessly. “The gods have cursed me today!” he added words to his yell. The owner of the woman laughed and collected his prize money from the vocal owner of the gladiator. Brasus ignored them as he stopped to watch through the bars. The sword fell from the woman’s hands and she stumbled a short distance, falling to her knees and reaching for – but not able to bring herself to touch – something that he couldn’t see. Something small. She sat back on her heels, her body rocking, and then threw her head back and screamed at the sky. She voiced every emotion he felt today in a single breath. “That’s a lovely horse for a freeman to be leading,” the woman’s owner stared at the colt. “He’s the finest you’ll see in Verona,” Brasus answered slowly. “I doubt that,” the woman’s owner shrugged. “I’ll sell him to you,” Brasus stated, tearing his eyes from the woman to look at the man he was talking to. Her owner was about to decline when the gladiator’s owner stepped forward. “I’ll buy him,” the man offered quickly. His eagerness left the woman’s owner staring at him in sudden confusion. “I’m not speaking to you,” Brasus stated, not looking away from the woman’s owner. “Come now, surely you –” “I’m not speaking to you,” Brasus repeated, his gaze not shifting. “Here and now, young Nazario, certainly one man’s coins are as good as –” “I’ll buy him,” the woman’s owner interrupted, his look snapping to Brasus the moment the gladiator’s owner mentioned his surname, and then reassessing the colt that Brasus was leading as the gladiator’s owner kept talking. Brasus knew his father was renowned for excellent horses, and both these men knew they couldn’t afford a colt from the Nazario family’s stock if they sold everything they owned. “What’s your price?” the woman’s owner asked quickly. “Her,” Brasus stated, turning to look at the woman who had just killed a gladiator. She was being dragged toward the bars he was looking through by one of the men who cleaned up between each fight. She wasn’t resisting, and simply dangled from the hands that held her, sobbing. The man who owned her looked at her when she sprawled to the ground in front of him. She barely moved after being thrown out through the gate. The iron clanged as the gate was slammed shut. "She’s yours,” her owner agreed.
Welcome to the new year! How's stepping back into the post-holiday reality going for you? Yeah... I tripped and slammed right into that brick wall, too. *Smiles at you through a black eye and missing teeth from the impact*
Due to the kids being off school for the winter break, I've gotten less done this week than I was hoping to for writing. I've also managed to somehow get more writing done than I'd expected to, especially with the kids still off school (although I think I can thank insomnia for the extra time I found this past week - not a recommended solution for people looking for more hours in their days).
As for what else is going on... kids are going back to school on Monday and I'm hinging my normal on getting back into the regular life routine after the holiday break. I'm going to keep sending out good vibes to get the condo sold by this spring - do you want to come and live in Edmonton? ;) - and hopefully can get enough of those positive vibes shared around so that my hubby can get into another job (he's union and project-based, so jobs come and go like shifts in our house).
Phew! Short post today. Now you can go and enjoy your weekend! :D |
AManda FLIEDERThis was a weekly blog updating on Fridays, but life got busy so now I pop in now and then to let you know I'm still chipping away at my stories. If you look back through the archive you'll find weekly quick personal blurbs about me, as in what's going on during my life as an Author and mom, and that doles out my short stories and novellas in bite-sized parts for everyone to read for free! Check out my Short Stories section for free downloads of most of my writing, too! Archives
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