From darkest shadows, they come. From most fetid bog, they emerge-- my children. Shall I introduce you? See Daphne: my two-headed, serpent-tongued daughter with her cloven hooves polished a brilliant blue to match the night sky that flows from her scalp and dances on a wind only meant for her. See Hektor: my son with his massive horns and lolling tongue, his eyes reflecting your every darkest desire. You hate him and want him in equal amounts, and my boy knows how to deliver pleasure and pain. See my twins, Remus and Lupin: ever their namesakes, beastly beings covered in fur the same gray as a death shroud, their eyes polished marbles of onyx in their skulls. These are my guardians, the protectors of my realm. These are the children I birth every time I put pen to paper, and I have hundreds more. They're waiting to be born, birthed from the folds of my brain, monstrous and beautiful. So if you try to understand the mechanisms of my of madness, they are who you will find. They are wait8ing for you. And they are hungry.

I used to see her often, back when I was too young to understand tragedy. She would emerge from the pond crowned in dragonflies, frogs buffering either side of her, deep blue dress tattered at the hem, pond grass tangled in her long, dark hair. She would walk up the steep hill towards the house, yet not once did her steps become uneven or ragged. It was as if the hill didn't exist at all. Up and up, closer and closer until she climbed up the back porch and waited for me beyond the screen door. I would go outside when my parents were sleeping, and we would play by the pond. She would float above the water, summon fragile, cloudy bubbles in her withered, dripping hands hands and sling them at me. I would squeal and try to dodge them; but she was a good shot. Come morning, I was as soaked as if I'd swam in the pond instead of frolicked at its edges. I learned not to stay out once the sun turned the sky gold. Momma and Daddy would be stirring by then, and I had to run inside to change and towel dry my hair. "We'll play again tomorrow!" I called to her once I'd made it to the back porch. I would wave at her. Not once did she wave at me, but I felt her watching me. As I turned, I heard the frogs returning to the pond, and the dragonflies began to drift over flowers that were as yellow as old, hard butter. I always made it back to bed just as Momma came to wake me for school. We played this game for years and years until, one night, she did not come. I was thirteen and had just gotten my first period. I wondered if I did something wrong, if my first menses had frightened her away. I knew I felt different: breasts budding on my chest, hair where there used to be skin, arms and legs aching with growth. I felt as if I was transforming into a new creature, one too wizened for our usual, childhood game. Then, she came to me one last time. I went to the back door, and there she was. But now her hair, which had once always hung in her face, was pushed back and revealed a face gone sunken and skeletal. Her eyes were so blue, they frightened me, bloodshot and searching my face for something familiar. I never knew if she found it. I opened the door and stepped onto the porch; but she did not lead me to the pond for our game. Instead, she took my hand in one of her own, and I felt the slime of the pond, the bite of the bones as she clung to me as hard as she could, surprisingly strong for someone so frail. She opened her mouth, and small moths drifted from between the gaps in her teeth. Her breath smelled of wet mold and things left to rot, of dirty water and mud. "Remember me," she said. She touched my face and I shuddered at the coldness of her hand. "Remember me." I didn't know what to say. I wanted to promise, tell her that I would never forget, couldn't forget. My voice lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed over and over, desperate to say something to the playmate that had once made my nights magical. All I could say was, "Don't worry. I won't become you." Not a promise of remembrance, but perhaps something that satisfied her still? For she retreated to the pond, and I never saw her again, thought I spent many nights looking and hoping for her damp procession. I'm in my thirties now, and I think about her often, here in my apartment, far away from my childhood home. I wish she would come to me once more, just so I could show her what I've become. Would she be proud of me? Would she hate what she saw? I would tell her, "See? See? I left my mark. I left my mark." And perhaps, just perhaps, that skinless face with its haunting eyes would look at me, and I would know that she was smiling.

Hello Nuggets! As you can see, my name is KaLyn and this is my chaotic corner of the Internet. I've always wanted to start blogging. I figured it was a good form of release and a type of stress management, but now I see it's more than that. Here's the thing: I've been writing for as long as I can remember: poetry, song lyrics, short stories, novel ideas. Being creative was my entire center of being. It's what kept me sane. It's the major I picked while I was in college. Then the real world came thundering down around my ears, and I had to put that dream aside. I started working at a mental health hospital, and I've been there for almost ten years, though I could have sworn it was for less than that. And I love my job. I love my patients and I love my coworkers, but I feel . . . stagnant now. While I love doing what I do, I can tell you that it doesn't make me as happy as writing and creating does. So, that's what I've decided to do! To once again pursue my passion into the world of creating--whether that be a short story or potential novel idea. My goal is to post at least once a day with this being my very first post! To be honest, I feel great about this! Maybe this blog will never earn me money. Maybe my stories will just retreat to a quiet corner of the Internet where they will gather dust and wither away. And yet, I'm not afraid of that. This is my space to be truly me--to create and rant and cry and allow myself to fully dive into the chaos that is the mechanism of my mind. I hope a few people will stick along for the ride. If not, may you find this blog somewhat entertaining. Please don't hesitate to message me or leave a comment. I love constructive criticism. Hate doesn't bother me either. All you're doing is racking up my views. Stay safe out there everybody! And never forget to have fun! Welcome to the chaos.

Mother Mother I call to You-- O great one, You who I seek in gratitude. Mother of the Sun Mother of the Moon Queen of Life, Mistress of Death, Hail to You-- Dark Lady with Your hair Unbound and spilling across the sky, stars studded in the waves of indigo-- Merciful Mother, Ruthless Protector She who screams when Her daughters are beaten She who weeps when an infant returns to Her arms Mother Mother Queen Consort Mistress Divine-- I seek to know You Answer my call-- Lend me Your Strength, Your tenderness, Your ferocity and Your love O Mother, how I feel Your love. I seek Your name, dear Mother. Show it to me in a dream, Thread it through the oil vapors, write it in the ash of my incense. Mother Mother Beautiful Mother, I offer my thanks and request You give me Your name.

Growing up, my alarm clock was the five a.m. train behind my house. It was also my white noise after a grueling day of public education, where gossip was currency and bravery was rewarded with contempt. So many nights, I heard the crickets beyond my window and wondered who they were singing to-- the stars, or perhaps, the moon, maybe the sun as it slunk down the horizon, turning the sky into a tapestry of gold and red, sometimes indigo and royal purple. Where I grew up, I could always see the stars. They surrounded my house-- spilled sugar on a velvet tablecloth--and the moon hung overhead like a watchful, sleepy eye that closed more and more as the days turned to weeks. Someone more poetic than me would call it a Cheshire grin, I call it the watchful eye of The Divine I had yet to know or comprehend. So many honey-thick evenings were spent on a back porch or old swing set, watching dragonflies drift over the nearby pond, birds moving across the sky like ink stains in water, their songs far away, high above where they could echo and be heard by every god. Frogs, fat and slick with mucus, would join them, their song coming from a deeper place, one formed in mud and stone. Dogs would howl as the train sped past, curious and concerned about the thunder that brought no rain. This was the song I heard from the time I was small. When I think back on that home at the end of a gravel road, I remember things-- not all of them good but most of them pretty great: my mother soaking chicken in watery barbeque sauce, Christmas music oozing through a tinny speak, a black dog holding watch every night, a mutt curled up next to my twin, a black cat that loved my little sister with all her heart, Paris runway in the living room, a scrawny little brother playing Power Rangers . It's harder for me to hear that lullaby now. Though, thankfully, there is still a train that speeds past my apartment, booming horn recalling a time when I slept to a Kentucky lullaby.

I don't put too much stock in dreams. The way I figure, they're just the brain's way of decompressing; but ever since I started taking medicine to help me sleep, my dreams have been . . . weird. Sometimes frightening, but mostly weird . Take last night: I had a dream I couldn't find my apartment, couldn't get a hold of my fiancé and I was naked throughout the whole process. At one point, I for sure thought that this was my new reality. I got so lost I somehow wound up in a college part of the town in my dreams, and my apartments aren't anywhere near a college! (This should have been my first clue that something was off.) At one point in time in the dream, I stole a bikini top and just sat on a curb with my eyes closed saying, "Think, think, think, think," over and over again. How Far I'll Go was playing in the background over a pool party that was happening behind me, and eventually, I got up and asked a man who looked like an severely aged yet still well-toned David Hasselhoff how to get back to my apartments. He told me how, and I started walking. Somehow, I ended up on a bike and was biking my way home (don't ask). By the time I woke up, I had finally found my way home and my fiancé started answering my calls again. Again, most of the time, over 98% of the time, I feel dreams aren't prophetic visions or warnings; they're the brain's way of handling new information and stress. Not saying they can't be, just saying a majority of them aren't. But the panic I felt during the dream was a panic I haven't felt in a long time. It's the kind that eats at you until you can hear is your heart in your ears and you feel sick, then numb. Thankfully, the numbness never came. What came was a determination to get home, a determination to reach my fiancé, and by the end of it, I had done that. I know the dream came as a result of this new venture I'm on. I'm writing this blog, delving into self-publishing, and starting a new chapter in my life. I am changing. I haven't felt a change like this in years, not since I came out to my family when I was in middle school, and not since I took the position on my current unit at work. Even in contended stagnation, change is inevitable. Change is what happens because we are humans and we can't stand still. Our bodies are unable to be frozen, out minds forever churning out new thoughts and ideas, our jobs, our home lives--they are always in flux. It's both a blessing and a curse for some like me who find comfort in stagnation. The shift is inevitable. The question is, what will we do when it happens? Will we panic? Flee in fear? Try to fight it tooth and nail only to end up still changed? The answer varies from person to person. Now that I am calm and can think clearly, I know what I have to do. Even when I feel lost, hopeless, defeated, I have to stay determined. I have to find a way to stay focused. I have a goal. I have things I want to accomplish, and the only thing stopping them at this point are my own anxieties about taking this venture. Yes. I'm afraid: Afraid I'll never be good enough. That no one will like my writing. That I'll just fade off into the afterlife without truly being who I want to be. However, as I said in my first blog post, I am done being held back by my own fear. I will feel it, then I'll push past it. I have a lineage of women behind me who became masters at this craft. With my own strength, and the strength my gods lend to me, there will be nothing I can't do. Thank you, Nuggets. Blessed be to you all.

By day, I sleep. By night, I hunt. You only have yourselves to blame. For I would not have become what I am if you had just thought to leave well-enough alone. But no, humans have to be themselves, just as I have to be myself. Glorious rapture comes from the death of one's prey. This is an equality between us. For do you not roar when your prey falls? Do you not feel satisfaction at a hunt you find justified? Are you not praised when a slight is returned. Split us open at our bellies, and you will find more similarities: heart liver lung intestine bone blood it turns out, there is no true difference between predator and prey. But there is one difference that matters-- who eats and who gets eaten. Man-eater I am called. I have been many things: crocodile hippo lion hyena dog cat snake bird my forms are endless as is my hunger. So long as there are dying humans and humans killing other humans for sport or vengeance, I will always be. The question then is: what is the next form I shall be?

I feel in love years ago, back when I was still a child~~ too young to understand the complexity of the new emotion. I knew one thing for sure: all I wanted to do was write. So I did. Page after page, journal after journal, I created worlds, destroyed homes, intertwined the lives of complete strangers. This is the power that writing has-- it made me a goddess of my own world where I was free to experiment and destroy as much as I pleased. Oh, it was rapture. And then, one day, I could not recall how to create. I could not remember what it felt like to be a weaver of fate. I've tried. Gods help me, how I've tried. Yet fear takes me by the back of the neck and holds me, digs its fingernails right into my spine and whispers with sour breath, "You'll never be good enough." I hate them. I know they has been the reason why my powers have all but disappeared. I am tired of fear. There is a sun burning in my mind, its flames flickering into the darkness, begging for a torch, a place to rest, desperate to not be swallowed up by void and emptiness. I am still afraid. But now the hold is not so tight, the fingernails easing from the bone to allow for sweet relief, even if only for a moment or two. Fear will not be my mistress. I call upon you again, the ancient forces that dwell in my blood. I summon you from the depths and ask you grant me your power and strength once again. Hear me, great deities of story, song and poetry, I ask for your aid. Guide me as you once did so many years ago. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready.

Horror and I have always had a very close relationship. Mainly because I grew up in a small town where the hottest news was the latest teen pregnancy. Of course there were also football games and track meets, cheer competitions and the like. But there was never a space for kids like me--kids who weren't athletically inclined and were only forced to undergo such suffering due to the demands of a public education. Sure there was choir and art and drama club, but there were no art competitions or writing contests. The closest I ever came to fame was writing a poem that was published in the local paper by a teacher. (I believe she was my reading teacher, though I can no longer recall what position she held.) Huh, I suppose that was my first time being published. But I have digressed long enough from the subject of what this post is supposed to be about. In short, there were no examples that kids like me could read or even wanted to read. I can't tell you how many times I read an adventure novel or some form of romance or drama, but as for the weird, the twisted, the obscene--that didn't come until much later. And thus we enter the most decrepit circle of Hell: public high school. To praise myself a little, I had a high reading level. Thankfully, this skill is no longer as obtuse as it was for me growing up, but all the other books kids my grade were reading bored me. I didn't want to read about a plucky teen adventure. Then I discovered Harry Potter . In hindsight, Harry Potter was my first dive into the world of the spooky and the horrific, the prime example being Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I'm not going to delve into plot or characters. I trust most of you know about the adventures of Harry Potter through osmosis. But there was something about that second book that sent shivers down my prepubescent spine, and may have been the origin of a few nightmares and irrational fears that I'm still not entirely over. But then the movie came out, and I was lost forever. To this day, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets is my favorite nostalgic movie to watch every Halloween when I want to get into the spooky mood: the lighting, the atmosphere, the plot, the acting, the story--it fit right into the same, creepy vibe of the first move. None of the other movies that came after it even came close to recalling the tone of those first two films. Burn it down to its bare bones and it's a simple enough plot--Harry must solve a mystery and stop a giant snake from killing the students of his school, but there was that mystery . Who was "the heir of Slytherin?" Even though the end result was being someone we knew yet didn't know, we saw something entirely new: a form of Voldemort that was already hardened by hate and disgust--even as an adolescent. As a child, it made me despise him. As an adult, it makes me think: what kind of trauma did Tom endure? What horrors and suffering did he see? Future books would answer these questions, but I feel the films did not do justice to those parts of the book. There are the usual perpetrators: time being the biggest one, budget as well I imagine, the issue of rating and the like. Still, to see the child become the horror, transform into the monster--I think that would have been spectacular to see in the film, maybe even a side story. But these are just my thoughts. I'm sure there are differences in opinion; and my memory isn't the best when it comes to the movies and books. I think it might be time for a relisten and rewatch; however, I will never forget the impact that book and movie had on me growing up. It may not be classified as a horror novel, but it was still infused with enough to give me nightmares and inspire my dreams. It fueled the flame that, yes, life can be scary, and people love to read about scary things. If anything, just to see the main character triumph over them. Or even fall. But like I said, that didn't come until much later. Good night Nuggets. Blessed be to you all.