Sorry I’ve been MIA.
Between the Covid situation (having to homeschool my two younger children) and my cancer taking a turn for the worse (due to lack of finances to continue the protocol I was on), I only just recently returned to writing again.

I must say that writing is what brings me the most joy in life (aside from my family of course).

I’m onto my third edit of Somnium2 and likely have another few edits to do 😆 I find it very difficult to be happy if my writing isn’t perfect.

Now that Covid restrictions here have lifted, my Somnium1 advert producer can get an IT person to hopefully retrieve the lost data so we can finally share the advert on Social Media.

I will try to keep my fans updated xx

I hadn’t realised just how much time and effort has to go into making a short advert! We have completed all the filming (thanks to my teenage son, my daughters, and their friends and cousins). My teenage son is going through the long editing process, and I’m just waiting impatiently – LOL! At this stage, we are planning on it being ready by halfway through March at the latest, but as far as computers go, you never know what’s around the corner. I have finally completed my revision of Somnium 1, and just waiting for the publishing company to be finished on their end. I’m currently working on a new novel which I’m very excited about, but I have started my editing of Somnium2 as well – which I’m very much hoping will be finished and published this year. It will be the second and final installment of my Somnium series, and just a warning – you may need a box of tissues sitting next to you when you read it.

Here’s hoping my next blog post is the announcement of the advert and the published second edition of Somnium1!

 

A short story I wrote a couple years ago. Language and horror warning.

NOTE: PLEASE DO NOT REPRODUCE THIS STORY WITHOUT ACKNOWLEDGING ME AS AUTHOR. TO DO SO WOULD BE BOTH ILLEGAL AND IMMORAL. THANK YOU. Kristy Kamin

Bloody Mary

She wanders along the pavement, kicking small stones along the way. Going over this morning’s events, she can’t stop a tear from escaping. Rubbing it away harshly, disappointed in her body for betraying her this way, she tries to push her chin up, but her head feels so heavy. What does it matter anyway? It’s not like anyone is watching her.

But someone is – watching her. Rubbing at the saliva that dangerously dangles at the southernmost point of his chin, not caring about the purple tinge to the wetness transferred to his wrist. All he cares about is watching her. The girl with the amber coloured hair, vacantly kicking at stones on the sidewalk. He sees the tear that escapes her eye and wonders what has made her cry.

She comes to an alleyway and hesitates a moment before shrugging to herself. She’s always had an aversion to alleys – I mean, they are the places where bad things happen in movies, right? But how could her day get any worse? She has managed to survive this far. The alleyway it is then.

He sees her disappear into the dark space; he knows he shouldn’t, but by the time he decides not to follow her, his feet are already halfway there. He doesn’t see the empty can, but he feels it against the toe that pokes out of his worn right shoe, as it connects and then makes a hollow clang against the wall of the towering building.

She involuntarily freezes in place. Should she turn? The safety people always say to turn. If you face the person, they are less likely to attack. But if she turns, that’s precious seconds she could have used to run. Fuck it. She runs.

She is running now, but he doesn’t want to lose her. He needs to get closer, to touch her. Even if only once. He picks up his pace, ignoring the pain of his loose toes as they hit the pavement. The smell of the alleyway is overpowering, a mixture of urine and vomit. A cat hisses at him, and he almost stops but reminds himself the girl is much more useful to him.

She not only hears but feels the footsteps coming closer; she takes a sharp left turn between two skip bins which overflow with years’ worth of rubbish. She almost trips over a discarded food tray, and in dodging it, she lands in a pool of purple vomit. Her left foot slides and her body follows. She lands with a thump against the wall, and blacks out.

He stops when her eyes close. He stands over her, waiting.

In the blackness, she dreams of friendships which are no more. She hears the teasing of the other kids in her class, ‘Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary…’  as she looks at the blood slowly dripping down the inside of her leg and onto her left shoe.

In her sleep, he hears her cry out, ‘But I’m not one of them! I’m not!’ Her whole body shudders as the tears come from behind her closed lids to pour down her cheeks. He wants to touch her then, but he can’t. He is still scared, unsure.

Before she opens her eyes, she senses him, like the heat from a fire standing close to her. She opens her eyes and presses herself against the brick wall behind her. She can feel the bumps scraping into her skin where the back of her t-shirt doesn’t quite meet her pants.

‘I’m infected!’ She screams. He looks closer; clear pale skin, the smell of sweat and body odour, the smell of human. Yes, she is infected. But isn’t that what he wants? To be infected too. Wouldn’t he rather be a human than this poor excuse for an alien?

‘Why?’ He screams. If they weren’t here, then he wouldn’t have these conflicting emotions.

‘I’m sorry.’ She is sobbing now. ‘It wasn’t my fault. My parents brought me here. I would …’

She hesitates, looks him over cautiously.

‘I would rather be on Earth.’

He nods.

He holds out his hand. She looks at it warily.

‘We can swap.’ He says.

Her eyes light up. If that’s true – then she could go back to school. She could prove them all wrong. She could prove that she isn’t infected – not human. That she is in fact, one of them.

‘Is that – is that even possible?’ He watches her lips quiver as she says it. Does he want it this bad? Bad enough to convince this girl to give it to him?

‘Sure, it is.’ He says. She is still in awe at how these aliens look so human. Aside from the purple bodily fluids, they are alike in every way. What are the chances…

As she holds out her hand, he notices it shaking. He steps forward, and she pulls it back.

‘Promise?’ She asks, the desperation in her voice almost makes him hesitate.

‘Of course.’

They touch. The current of infection passes through them both. The connection will last between them forever. The love she feels for him is so overwhelming that she pulls him to her so that their lips meet. He responds desperately, and as a bubble forms around them, they make love.

The bubble bursts and they both fall to the ground. She can already feel the new life forming within her. She squeezes his hand, and he pulls it away.

He feels so ashamed. He had never believed the rumours. The rumours of what really happens when you become infected. He thought he could just take it from her, and leave. But no. Now he is connected to her forever. He watches as she rubs her belly affectionately, as she stares at him with those cute little lines between her eyes as she frowns.

‘What’s wrong?’ She says to him.

‘Nothing.’ He replies. Then he runs. As he runs, he drools a little. Wiping at his chin, he smiles to see the saliva is clear. It worked! But the triumph is mixed with sadness, for although he is now human, he will live the rest of his life with the knowledge that he left her, and his child.

She runs into the school quadrangle, nursing her expanding belly and trying to ignore the niggling thought that she may never see him again. Everyone is looking at her. Good. That’s what she wants. She rips a knife from the closest boy who is trying to cut up some kind of fruit inside his yellow lunchbox, and she holds it high in the air.

‘Proof!’ She screams. She feels the child jump in fright from within her. She ignores it, instead, pulling her skirt up to her waist. Some start to snigger, some outright laugh, but none of that matters. She pushes the blade against her thigh and moves it across. Bright red blood pours from the open wound as she stands there triumphantly.

‘Infected!’ Someone screams. The boy whose knife she took, jumps up from the grass and takes a step backwards. She looks down.

She stumbles.

She trips.

She falls.

Forward.

As the knife plunges into her belly, she closes her eyes in defeat. The baby is no longer moving, and they both leave this world to the chant,

‘Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.’

NOTE: PLEASE DO NOT REPRODUCE THIS STORY WITHOUT ACKNOWLEDGING ME AS AUTHOR. TO DO SO WOULD BE BOTH ILLEGAL AND IMMORAL. THANK YOU. Kristy Kamin

Hands by Kristy Kamin

 

She stared at the clock. It was an old clock. It’s hands seemingly as slow as an old man. Or woman. ‘Why do we always say old man?’, she whispered quietly to herself.

The clock only had two hands, the minutes hand and the hour hand, which is what made it seem so slow because she couldn’t see the seconds with the clarity that she would with a more modern clock which would have the seconds hand steadily creeping around the clock face. This old clock, made of wood and likely the old-style cogs hiding behind it, but still after all these years steadily working, telling people the time.

A whistle blew, a hand grabbed her and started to pull,

‘’Time to go now’ said Mary’s mother.

It seemed as though it was always time to go. Never time to stand still like this. Mary kept her feet rooted to the floor. She didn’t care if her mum said it was time to go, the old clock still had its long golden hand on the five and her mum said when it was six-thirty they had to leave.

Her mum continued tugging, but Mary stayed put. The old clock told her it wasn’t time yet.

‘We are going to miss the train!’ her mother cried, exasperated.

‘It’s not six-thirty!’ said Mary, her lip out.

‘That’s what time the train leaves Mary. Not the time we have to get ready to go on the train!’ her mother said.

Mary held her spot, she didn’t listen to any of the boring words falling out of her mother’s mouth, she just kept staring at the old station clock. The long hand looked as though it may be finally moving now. It was so close to that six.

Mary was up in the air and flying, being held by two hands tightly clamped around her. Mary’s face contorted, she could no longer see the hand, just blurry faces as tears spilled from her eyes. Faces that were ignoring her as they were rushing this way and that. Mary kicked a few times and wriggled in the hopes of dropping out of her mother’s arms. But her mother just gripped tighter. Didn’t her mother understand? She just wanted to see that long, golden beam move onto the six.

“Damn you, mother!” she wailed at the top of her lungs. She knew that the ‘D’ word was forbidden in their family, but she had overheard her mum’s friends say it a few times when they thought Mary wasn’t listening. Mary had never said the ‘D’ word before, but she thought it might make her mother drop her in shock. Which she did – but not until they were on the train.

‘Mary Eve Rose McDonald!’ said her mother crossly. Mary could tell her mother was cross, not because of her tone of voice, which was calm as always, but because her mother used her full name. As her mother was telling her why a fine young girl shouldn’t be so disrespectful of her mother and blah, blah, blah, Mary thought to herself, as she always did when she was in trouble, ‘McDonald is such a silly name to have. it’s like the song Old McDonald had a farm, and although we had a farm when I was in my mother’s belly (her mother told her this when Mary had asked about the whole McDonald thing), the song is not actually about Father and the farm he had’.

This made Mary think about her father again – whom she had never met, and her mother had never mentioned except for ‘He was not a very nice man’ – whom she imagined to be a ‘not very nice man’. Therefore, she always imagined him as a man in overalls – like Old McDonald, even though the song wasn’t about him – chewing straw and kicking the poor pigs or sheep.

‘Old McDonald had a sheep, kick kick, kick kick, kick’, Mary sang in her head, she let out a giggle. She saw her mother ‘harrumph’ and shake her head, and then she was pulled to a carriage where Mary was sat down next to a large, hairy, and rather smelly old man who was already snoring.

As per usual, Mary’s mother was also nodding off as soon as the loud whistle blew and the train slowly started to gain momentum. Mary would have watched the people, and not much later, the fields outside her window, but she was not yet tall enough to reach the window, being that she was currently only six years old. Sitting there watching the snoring old man as her mother’s hand slowly unfurled, allowing Mary’s hand to fall out of her slender fingers, as white as the snow that capped the mountains Mary could not see slowly fading out of sight.

As soon as Mary’s hand slipped out of her mother’s with a soft thwap sound on her lap, the snoring man’s eyes opened as wide as saucers. The first thing the man saw was a blurry looking child sitting between himself and a young woman. He rubbed his eyes quickly with balled hairy fists. His eyes somewhat clearer now, the edges of his mouth curved upward ever so slightly.

‘What have we here’ he said, not really a question. He checked out the girl, she looked very young, dressed quite nicely in a white skirt with those puffs on the end, parents so liked to dress their young children in these days. Her white knitted top made her skin look much darker than it actually was. A half-breed by the looks of it. Never mind, she would still interest his buyers. In fact, she would interest more buyers than usual, as she could be bought as a slave girl, or as an adoptee. Win-win for him.

‘What a fine young specimen you are,’ he muttered out loud. He didn’t mean to, but he was a little too excited for the mighty price he would get for this one.

‘Scuse me, sir?’ Mary spoke. This man, now that he was awake, didn’t seem as innocent as he did when he was sleeping. In fact, now that he was awake, Mary could see that he looked like one of those ‘strangers’ her mother often cautioned her about. He was dressed in a fine black suit, which made him look all respectable, but he had that funny smile on his old wrinkled (and Mary thought a little dirty-looking) face. Mary grabbed at her mother’s limp hand. Her mother groaned funnily in her sleep like she often did through the night if Mary ever knocked into her in whatever bed they were sharing at the time. The kind of groan that said leave me alone, but in groan language.

The old man’s grin widened, just a little.

‘I was saying what a cute little girl you are. What’s your name?’

‘Mother told me not to talk to strangers,’ Mary answered, her voice shaking.

The man laughed. ‘Oh, I’m no stranger. You can just call me uncle Bob. Do you want to hear a story?’

Mary held her mother’s hand all the tighter, shaking her head. The old man moved his bottom half so that he and Mary were now touching. He smelt like old tobacco. Mary’s stomach felt bad. She shook her head, ever so slightly. Because she was trying really hard not to move. She wanted her mother to wake up and take her off the train. But the train was still moving. And from Mary’s past experience, it would probably be moving for a while longer.

‘Of course, you want to hear a story,’ the man said, laughing – or to Mary, it sounded more like a growl of an old angry bear.

‘Once there was this little girl – much like you actually’, and as he said this, the old man rested his right hand on her left knee, it was missing one finger. She shuddered. He patted her leg a couple of times, but still left his aged hand there as he told his story’…

‘And this little girl much wanted to go on adventures, not just be dragged around by her mother everywhere. Even though this girl was little, in her head she was much bigger than she looked. She didn’t want to be stuck on dreary old trains, or in train stations, this little girl wanted to see the big, wide world without anyone telling her when or where she should be.

This little girl met a hairy old man on a train – much like this train. She was at first frightened of him because he looked like a scary old man. And she wasn’t used to old men with their manly smells and their hairy hands.

But this man had been on many adventures, and the little girl could see this. She could see this because his skin was old and leathery, like someone who had been outdoors a lot, and she knew from experience that being outdoors a lot makes you more likely to come across adventures.

After talking with this old man for a while, the little girl knew this was the person she was to be with, because even though the little girl knew in her head she was bigger than she looked, on the outside she still looked like a little girl, and if she were to go on adventures on her own, then she would be taken to the closest policeman to be returned to her mother.

The train stopped at the next town, a town she had never been to, and the old man held out his four-fingered hand to her – another tell-tale sign of a man who had been on adventures, maybe his finger was sliced off during a sword duel in another land. The little girl took his hand and was led to where many adventures awaited her.’

The train Mary was sitting on, stopped then, and the old not-so-scary anymore man arose, taking his hand off Mary’s knee. He held out his four-fingered hand to Mary, bowing ever-so-slightly and said in an almost graceful way,

‘Shall we then?’

Mary held her small shaking left hand towards his, still a little frightened, but anxious for the adventures which awaited her. Maybe this man would let her watch the long golden rod move onto the six.

Her mother stirred; Mary slowly let go of her mother’s hand. She would leave her peacefully sleeping. Maybe when her mother woke up and found Mary gone, she would breathe a sigh of relief and be able to go on her own adventures. Mary again looked toward the man, his lips curling up, but no longer a stranger. He might look a little strange, but he was offering her exactly what she wanted. Mary thought of the little girl in his story, and her head was now swimming with all the adventures she was about to experience.

Mary’s fingers were almost touching his when her mother suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs. The man lunged for Mary, but her mother was now hitting him with her red bag. The red bag Mary had always seen her mother with. The red bag which was only as big as Mary’s large teddy bear – which was inside that bag. Her teddy bear would be getting hurt with all that slamming against that man’s face. That lovely man (Mary had forgotten now that he was once a scary man to her) who was going to take her on adventures.

Mary started crying.

‘Stop mother!’ she shouted between sobs. But now the Railroad Police had arrived and were escorting the man off the train. A feeling of loss, a loss of freedom, a loss of adventure, Mary hit at her mother with tiny curled fists. She struck her mother over and over,

‘Damn you!’ Mary cried. Her mother was looking at her with tears running down her own face, leaving lines of black soot down her cheeks from her eyeliner. Her mother always wore eyeliner. Her mother never cried. This realisation caused Mary to stop crying herself. She sat – or rather fell – back onto the train carriage chair. Her mother sat beside her, pulling a tissue out of the red bag. Mary stayed silent, still in shock to see her mother’s tears. Her mother dabbed the tissue on her cheeks, attempting to remove the blackness.

The whistle blew, and Mary was bobbing this way and that as the train started to move again. The rest of the passengers were also silent, shocked by the commotion only moments before. Mary put her spindly little hands in her lap, squeezing them all the way down between her legs, pushing her white skirt down, so that if it weren’t so puffy, it would look more like pants.

‘That man was a bad man!’ Mary’s mother said so quietly that Mary barely heard her. But this time, Mary was listening very hard. Her mother had been crying, Mary was very interested in what she had to say.

‘I know what a bad man is like. After your father…’ her voice trailed off, Mary could not hear her mother now, the train’s loud whistle sounding again.

‘There must be some sheep on the tracks up ahead,’ Mary thought to herself, and now she was no longer interested in what her mum had to say, or the strange man, or anyone else for that matter, as she was starting to feel sleepy. She allowed the roughness of the train to lull her into a deep sleep, the last thing she heard was her mother’s familiar, ‘harrumph’, and the feel of her calloused hand enveloping her own.

So I’ve had almost 2 years of not writing, and I think over a year since I updated this page 😱

I spent some time on my Bowen business and studying – which I will return to the studying – and also building a business in a company which has helped me in my healing journey from breast cancer.

I thought I was done with the whole writing thing, but I’ve come to realise I’m not truly happy unless I am writing. I am planning on doing some short stories which I will likely share here, but will also edit the half dozen other stories I wrote a couple years ago so I can enter them to publishing companies. I do not really have the time or the money to self publish any more books, but if I can’t get a publishing company on board, then I may rethink things.

Who know what the future holds?

Watch this space…

So 2017 was not the best year for many people. It almost felt like the ‘gods were against us’.

In my little corner of the world; I published a book, that seemingly went nowhere. I was under constant stress working while studying full time, then trying to build a new business (while raising 4 kids). On top of it all, I was constantly sick.

Things finally started looking up later in the year. I found myself an awesome doctor who won’t settle for anything less than a definite answer, and by October we found out what was up with my body. I’m now on medication – mostly supplements – and slowly starting to improve.

Then I won a book award! Which was definitely the highlight of my year!

Anyway, I’m believing for a better 2018. With improving health, business starting to get better, and new Support Workers who help with Hayley – and now also the housework (bliss!).

I hope 2018 is a better year for everyone.

I am so honoured to announce that I received Honourable Mention in the Royal Dragonfly Book Awards. I’m on a bit of a high right now…

Stay tuned for some exciting news. Here’s a hint:

 

Searching through my writing USB last week, I found this Short Story I wrote a couple years ago. Not my finest writing, but interesting nonetheless:

Short story – Awu by Kristy Kamin

 

Just another day in the office. Well, not office exactly. An office would be lovely on such a hot day. Even the ice-creams I sell melt so fast, people hardly have a chance to enjoy them. The smell of carbon monoxide fills my nose – you would think I would be used to it by now, working on the edge of a busy street. But no, the suffocating gases still gives me a pounding headache. Oh well, a job is a job.

Another customer,

“A hotdog and a bottle of water thanks Bob.”

“Coming right up Sally” I answer. A new customer. I have never met Sally before. I peruse her body as I reach into the bread bin to grab a roll. On her upper right arm she wears a bright red and black tattoo of a Mustang – a vintage car lover. Her left hand, a wedding band – married. Her lower left wrist shows a small tattoo of two children – a boy and a girl, both the same height, holding hands. She has twins.

Looking down to pick up a sausage for the roll, through the clear glass I notice a grey scale tattoo on her lower left thigh – a house with an apron next to it. A fulltime mother, loves to cook.

Looking back up at Sally I smile, passing her the hotdog and water,

“That will be ten dollars Sally”. Sally passes me a ten-dollar note, smiling back, her dimple piercings caving further into her face. Turning, she walks away, her large ‘Sally’ neck tattoo flashing with each step she takes.

“In between jobs are we Bob?” Comes a voice from behind me. I subconsciously bring my hand up to the base of my skull, covering the tattoo of a book. It’s times like these I wished we didn’t wear our inner self on our bodies.

I turn around to be greeted by Andrew. Andrew is a lawyer – I can tell by the scales of justice on his hand. He’s single, and a bit of a player by the looks of it – the naked lady art all up his right arm, under it the list of around thirty or forty women – and men – he has slept with. He’s also into fast cars, alcohol, and the odd bit of gambling…

“Did you want something to eat?” I try changing the subject.

“I see you’re not married – only been with one woman too. Maybe I could take you out tonight and introduce you to some girls I know?”

“No thanks.” I mutter.

“Oh – you don’t swing that way anymore. I know plenty of guys too” He grins.

“No – I’m just not interested right now” I’m feeling quite annoyed with this guy.

“Righty oh. Here’s my number if you change your mind” He hands me his card. I wait for him to leave, before lighting the stove and holding the card to the flame. The smell of burning cardboard fills my nostrils, overtaking the stench of traffic.

“Did you really just burn that guy’s card?” A female voice catches me off guard. I drop the card into the stove. It immediately turns to ash.

Looking up, my eyes meet with the most intense looking young woman I have ever come across. Her hair a fiery, but natural red; her eyes a deep green, like the deepest depths of the ocean, taking all of me in so that I feel as though I am drowning. Her nose, a little crooked, holds no piercings; even her soft white ears are naked. My eyes dart around her body, trying to find her name – but it isn’t there. That’s when I realise it – she has no tattoos! I am at a loss; I have no idea who she is. It’s like an empty book standing in front of me, the pages white, just aching to be written on. I’m intrigued.

“Hi. My name’s Robert – and you are?” I hold out my hand to her, half of me hoping to find a marking of some sort on her wrist, the other half of me willing there to be none. It is almost as though her body were too perfect to be filled with anything.

“Hi Robert. I’m Awali-Uzuri. But you can call me Awu” She folds her hands over mine and holds it for a moment in time. Her hands, as soft as I had imagined, her warmth travels through them, channelling its way into my body.

“Original Beauty” I say, after finally regaining my composure.

“Yes.” Her soft sweet voice replies, “You know Swahili?”

“I spent some time travelling while researching my last novel. Are you African?”

She finally lets go of my hand. Throwing her head back, her laughter trickles out of her cherry coloured lips like sweet honey.

“No. My parents lived there for a short time before I was born”

“So…” I panic, I had never met anyone without tattoos. I know nothing about her, and I want – no I need – to know everything about this young woman standing in front of me.

“It’s okay to ask you know.” She urges me, her face turning serious.

“Umm. D-do you live around here?” I stutter, my confidence starting to return. Although this is strange, I realise I actually feel comfortable around her. It’s like she oozes a sense of belonging.

“Yes, Robert.” Awu points down a side street, not far from where we were standing.

“I’ve never seen you before” I state, confused. Awu doesn’t answer me. It wasn’t technically a question I guess. She isn’t going to make this easy for me.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask her – a straight forward question.

“I’m an artist”

I nod. Makes perfect sense that she would be an artist – I realise I had already known the answer before I had even asked her.

“Trust your instincts” She whispers in my ear. I close my eyes; she’s so close I can smell the clean scent of lilies on her skin and the mint fragrance coming from her mouth. Oh how I want to kiss her then. But when I open my eyes she’s gone, only the sweet smell remains. Awali-Uzuri.

OMG! I am so sick of people! Ok, maybe that’s a little generalistic (apparently that’s not a word). Maybe I’m just sick to death of people who think they are right, and everyone else is wrong. What if we are all right? Or all wrong? Really – who gives a shit. Well, obviously a lot of people do, or they wouldn’t be voicing their opinions so loudly – like me 😉
Ok, so how about this idea; maybe instead of trying so hard to be the one who is right, maybe, just maybe, we could all just love and accept each other. Accepting doesn’t mean you have to agree. It just means you are a nice enough person to not make another feel ‘wrong’ or inferior because your belief system doesn’t agree with theirs.
I love this definition of acceptance: Acceptance in human psychology is a person’s assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it or protest it. (definition from Wikipedia – so not sure if people will accept that or not – lol)