Composting for Poets

When I was fourteen, I asked my mom about hippies.

“Mom, were you a hippie in the sixties?”

She didn’t look up from her needlepoint. “What? Of course not.”

“But I thought everyone in the sixties was a hippie,” I said.

She glanced at me, arching her eyebrow. “No, everyone in the sixties was not a hippie. Don’t ask your father a question like that, ok?”

“Did you wear tie-dye?”

No.”

“Did you like the Beatles?”

“Only when they were mop-tops. I didn’t like what they did later on, especially when that Yoko Ono” (she wrinkled her nose) “showed up and they all grew their hair long and started taking drugs.”

I had no idea who Yoko Ono was, but he/she/it sounded intriguing. “Were your friends hippies?”

She paused in her stitching. “Why are you asking all these questions about hippies?”

“We’re studying the Cultural Revolution in my History class.” I stared at my practical mother in her polyester pantsuit and envisioned her in a patchwork skirt and a wreath of flowers on her head, dancing barefoot in the mud, just like in the documentary we’d watched in class. I watched her needle pull thread through the fabric in the cross-stitching hoop. Perhaps she would have embroidered her bell-bottomed jeans …

“Well, I knew a few Flower Children. They’re different.  We didn’t think of them as hippies.  Hippies were dirty and radical.  But the Flower Children never wanted to hurt anyone,” she explained. “They were gentle and loved nature. They believed in love, not like those drug addicts that came later.”

“What happened to the Flower Children?” I asked.

She shrugged. “They grew up, I guess.”

I was silent then, wondering if flowers and love were of no interest to old people.

***

Another question, one that Mom can’t answer, occurred to me today, many years after the Summer of Love faded into the long Autumn of Survival: What names were worshiped then but languish unknown and excluded from today’s teen dreams? Who started it all and died in obscurity? Because it’s probably their ghosts I’m seeing on here on San Francisco’s Haight Street, and only artificial tulpas of youthful Grace Slick, who is now white-haired and plump. Across from me, a mural of Janis Joplin looms over a group of kids in filthy jeans with rope-leashed pit bulls. No flowers in their hair, though a couple have Grandmother’s love beads and imitations of Uncle’s mohawk. They pass around cigarettes, and vodka in Coke bottles. Their vices are cheaper than drugs, and kill the dream more slowly.

America’s collective memory of teen dreams is crammed like an attic, full of ruffled shirts, ‘49 Fords, ramshackle rooms in unwashed bohemia, syringes and rolling papers, leather journals stinking of cigarettes, neon gods, combat boots under lace, and worn sleeping bags on concrete. And in San Francisco, I could find–if I was inclined to chip away at the grime layering the streets–the remains of flowers much older than I am. Organic matter mixed with bum piss and exhaust, composting in concrete cracks.

—————-

The musical inspiration for this came from a kid playing guitar outside the cafe I was in.  Since he wandered off, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite new San Francisco bands, Foreign Cinema.

Photo by Mr. Skeleton.

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Space Witch

Hypothetical orange planet with two rings

She lounges, nude, in the long window seat, long legs draped over velvet cushions threaded with silver. The stars and gas giants, ripped from galactic tranquility, rumble and flare as her ship saunters by. She loves their two-fold reaction of shock (the insect has turned the attention of our immensely old celestial bodies) and frustration (we are mired in our vacuums and cannot pursue this novelty) while her dark ship drifts past.

Amorous liaisons between witches and planets have not happened for millennia, but she is old enough to remember the spurious actions that caused the whole arrangement to collapse (a girl could go from “beloved” to “insect” at the speed of light). She still has her edge, and a little cosmic tease will serve these neglectful hunks of rock right.

She sorts her herbs and cards by the window as though she does not notice the straining of the stars, as though she has not done this to random solar systems for thousands of years. It never gets old, this stoking of fire in dead space rock and clean fire. She has seventy light-years before she reaches Galaxy A1689-zD1, where all things Terra are much in demand.  She might as well have a little fun while she passes the space-time.

***

I originally wrote this in honor of the Faster-Than-Light Neutrino Phenomenon, which sadly was just a mistake rather than the physics-shattering paradigm shift it initially appeared to be. Perhaps the space witch is just a sub-atomic particle traversing the universe.

This song was inspired by Massive Attack’s “Butterfly Caught.”  The band’s sound changed significantly over the years, and I’ve liked nearly everything they’ve put out.  I wasn’t sure how to categorize this song but settled on trip-hop for lack of a better descriptor.

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About

About author Kate Hennessey

AuthorWho I Am

Once upon a time, a construction-paper book titled Deaths of Horrible Opera Singers caused a stir in a small Midwestern elementary school. Encouraged, the weird kid who created it went on to write such perennial classics such as The Dead Chicken’s Revenge, The Unicorn who Overdosed on Diet Pepsi, and Lars, the Pig with No Skin. Well-forged in such irreverent fires, that kid–who eventually sprouted into me, Kate Hennessey–now turns thought experiments into written humor, magical realism, and spiritual transcendence. I promise that you can laugh and revere the universal mysteries simultaneously.

I live near California’s Monterey Bay with this swell gent, two cats, and a fat and noisy goldfish. In my spare time, I lead a fiction-writing critique group in Santa Cruz, pretend like I know what I’m doing in yoga class, and explore California’s jaw-droppingly beautiful beaches, forests, and coastal communities. There is no better backdrop to develop the ideas for my novels, short stories, and flash fiction pieces! On some glorious days, the scenes and dialogue seem to emerge from the waves, the sunsets, and even the barking sea lions (though occasionally the spell breaks when they belch in unison–trust me, this happens).

 I’m also a freelance writer who works with conscious companies and creatives of all kinds.  Learn more about my services here.

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A Myth Much Prettier than Home (published in Microw Summer 2012)

Throwback from 2012:

Microw, a flash fiction supplement to Full of Crow Press and Distribution, published one of my stories.  Following the summer theme of “Home,” the story is titled “A Myth Much Prettier than Home” and peeks into the creation of the Sole Portal Builder in Marine Territory as he whips up a portal to home for Monsieur Atticus … but perhaps a “home” that can never be re-experienced.  Check it out:  http://www.fullofcrow.com/contentfiles/MICROW7Summer2012.pdf.

I’m embarrassed to have forgotten the musical inspiration for this piece.  I’m currently swimming in beautiful tunes by Tamaryn, Saint LouLou, and Foreign Cinema, so I’ll publish some new pieces soon.

Aside: a crow flew into our house recently and flew around, terrified, until D picked it up and took it outside where it pretended to be dead for a few moments, then flew away furiously.  That was the Summer Solstice.  Very symbolic, don’t you think?  I also think the crow gave our indoor cats fleas, but nevermind.  Nature is beautiful, though not always ….convenient.

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Raw Materials

It is a terrible thing to be in the thrall of one of the Fearless Ones. Their smiles edge you toward your own animosities and make your nightmares sweet as the scent of their skin. Your raw materials, while frequently forgotten, were at least appreciated.

He’d been on a secondary avenue when they’d collided. He’d slipped on peacock feathers trailing from her skirt, and he dropped everything; cracked cell phone, torn jacket, and shattered glasses lay on the grimy pavement.

She, the emerald beauty, said, “I’m an artist,” and whisked him to her lair where she built a collage of his glass, fibers, and silicon splinters. He hadn’t asked for recompense, so she gave him this collage, which she laughingly titled “Window into Fearlessness.”

It didn’t seem strange that they talked, nor that she poured aged wine into antique glasses. Later they danced under throbbing starlight amidst freaks and beauties, and it seemed natural. He slept in her bed for the next five months, wine bottles and empty vials rattling underneath when he shifted. Someone may have called, but, he had no phone to pick up. If anything looked like artifice, his myopia concealed it. And she’d taken his jacket, so he stayed close to absorb her glittering warmth, pressing so near that sometimes he burned.

Through her feathered eyelashes, she watched him unravel his mind and body. He had given her so much raw material, so she continued to build with the debris of his life. He, blood-soaked and dazzled, watched as she unfolded her 10,000 dimensions, each spiraling into the breath of gods and the mathematics of the universe. He lay back and watched cross-eyed as she knit tesseracts with his hair, looping and pulling until he was used, rendering him an obscure mathematical concept necessary for her unorthodox construction. The ghetto streets outside, so built up with detritus and shallow ambition, became stairways of junk under her hand, ascending into gardens and tide pools, columns of numbers and lines of linguistics. A fragile but scalable mess, propped up with his broken bones. He hadn’t even felt them break.

Eventually, she climbed over this towering mass toward her now-realized goal: the Primary Avenue out of this tertiary world. She looked back over her shoulder as she crossed, but of course she had already forgotten his theorem and anyway, what was left of him was blind and buried. For her kind, looking back at all was remarkable.

 

Musical Inspiration: Crystal Castles— Suffocation

I love the name Crystal Castles because the name makes me think of my third grade Trapper Keeper, which featured a unicorn blazing across space exiting the sparkly rainbow castle hovering somewhere near Saturn.  But when I actually listen to Crystal Castles, it seems like the unicorn has been pieced together and reanimated after a brutal dissection, and the castle is inhabited by an ice fairy on heroin.


 

Photo Credits: Jenniffer ClarOscura

The photo above is of my friend Jenniffer ClarOscura of Dream Pioneers.  She is much sweeter and kinder than the character in the story, and extremely knowledgeable about dreams and lucid dreaming.  Isn’t she beautiful?

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Ulrich the Tooth Goblin

The sun sank low on the dirty gray horizon, and Ulrich the Goblin watched the tiny glows of the fairies rising into the sky as they hurried to their assignments.  He imagined the fading red rays shining on their iridescent wings, and he craned his neck to stare at his own bedraggled wings hanging rodent-like down his back.

“What you lookin’ at, Uls?” his friend Marv asked.  “You ain’t got no new boils or rashes there.”  He patted Ulrich’s back apologetically.  “Sorry.  I mean, you still look hideous and all. Don’t worry about your looks.”

Ulrich sighed.  “What do you suppose it’s like?” he asked wistfully.

“What?”

“Being a tooth fairy.”

Marv guffawed.  “Oh man, I bet it sucks.  Flying around on paper-thin wings – probably get caught in tree branches all the time, and I hear them fairies get fired if they don’t stay pretty.  You got to sneak into the kid’s bedroom without settin’ off alarms or getting chewed on by the family dog.  Then you have to crawl into some snot-nosed brat’s bed, squirm under the pillow without getting caught or crushed, grab some half bloody tooth and stuff it in your bag, and then YOU have to pay for the privilege of returning the teeth to the Mother House.”

“But they’re so beautiful …”

Marv stood up and shouldered his arrow sling.  “Yeah, they are.  But I’d take making elf-locks in babies’ hair any day.  At least you can stick around to see ’em cry.  A goblin needs to see the results of his handiwork, you know, job satisfaction.  Anyway, see you later, Uls. I got some new kids I gotta terrorize.”  He scampered off.

Ulrich looked down at his copy of Nognirpook’s Guide to Torturous Knots:  The Best Knots for Fine Baby Hair and Beyond and sighed.  Was there some law relegating goblins to spilling milk and knotting hair?  His wings were only good for flying a few feet off the ground, unlike the sinuous, glittering fairies flying high above the trees.

“I wish there was some way for me to join them,” he mumbled to the empty forest floor.  “I know how to scramble into dark places.  I know how to avoid detection – goblins are great at that!  And I could do so many artistic things with baby teeth.  This job is wasted on the fairies!  They probably cry after every assignment because their little flower dresses get rumpled,”  he grumbled.

Suddenly a voice rumbled from the tree he was slumped against.  “Fine idea, Ulrich, but you cannot fly as the faeries do.  It would take you too long to reach your destination.”

He recoiled in shock and stared open-mouthed at the tree.  There had not been a talking tree in the forest for eons.  “What, you’ve just been sitting around for the past 300 years without saying a word?”

“Goblins rarely have anything interesting to say,” the tree boomed.  “You’re always bragging about turning milk sour and stealing chicken eggs.  Your species as a whole has low ambition.  Except for you, Ulrich.  You’re fascinating with this foolhardy desire to be a tooth fairy.”

Ulrich scowled and shuffled his feet.  Great, now the whole goblin village would hear about his unorthodox desires.  He’d be a laughing stock!  He could already hear the crowd at the goblin pub, chortling and throwing dead flower petals at him in mockery.  “Uh, yeah.  Thanks and all, but could you keep that to yourself?  It was just a silly idea.”

“It isn’t silly, my goblin friend.  I’m going to help you.”  And with this, Ulrich grew queasy.  The ground seemed unstable and he stumbled, smacking his head on a tree branch.  His vision grew dark and he remembered nothing for several hours.

When he awoke, he rubbed his aching head.  “Hey, what kind of help was that, you jerk?” he groaned, but the tree was silent.  Could he have imagined it all?  Perhaps he’d hit his head and dreamed the whole thing.  He reached back to scratch an itch behind his shoulder blades.

He froze in astonishment.  From the site of the itch sprang a third wing!

He screeched!  His wings, including the new one, jerked involuntarily.  First in fear, and then with growing delight, he flexed his new wing.  The muscles were long and powerful.  Perfectly capable, in fact, of –

“HAULING MY GOBLIN HEINIE ABOVE THE TREES!” he crowed.  The extra wing-strength sent him careening into the air, propelling him through tree leaves and birds’ nests.  “Sorry!” he called to the angry avians as they dove to repair his damage.  “New wings!”

Such fabulous wings!  He soared into the clear air and his goblin village dwindled below.  Without the haze of the never-ending goblin fires, the horizon was a delightful pink and purple rather than the dull gray he was used to.  He smelled clear air instead of the stench of bone stew and smoke.  By flexing one wing up and the other two down, he flew in a lazy circle, which he did blissfully until a collision sent him sprawling into a tree branch.

“Oh!  My!  I’m so terribly sorry!” cried a velvet voice.  He tried to catch his breath as he hung limply from an oak tree branch. A flutter of shiny wings and glittery skin brushed against him.

“Did I hurt you?” asked the voice – a fairy’s voice, he realized with excitement.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he managed.  He pulled himself up the branch and crouched.  The fairy’s smile, which had been beaming brightly and apologetically, faltered.

“I … I seem to have dirtied your … um … dress …” said the fairy.  Her eyes traveled over his goblin loincloth in horror.  “You’ll be let go if you return to work in that condition, fellow flower fairy!  Oh, do let me help you.”

“My dre–oh.  My dress, right.”  He coughed and raised the pitch of his voice.  “I am so clumsy for a fairy, yes indeedy!  I am always messing my pretty shiny outfits.  Where might I get another, dear fellow fairy?”

The fairy looked troubled.  “I’m sure it’s difficult to find clothes in your size.  But perhaps we can stitch together a dress of flower petals and tree leaves.”  The fairy extended a graceful hand, which Ulrich shook enthusiastically.  The fairy winced but politely led the way through the forest, flying in fluid arcs as Ulrich followed in a bumblebee-style, narrowly missing branches and spiderwebs.  “We’ll stop at the Fairy Fashion Tree,” she chirped brightly.  “The Fashion Fairy will be able to help us!”  They touched down.  Ulrich stared slackjawed at the giant sycamore adorned with wispy moss and flowering vines, and especially at the stream of fairies and pixies wandering in and out, all arrayed in carefully-fitted flower-petal attire.  He ducked under the low door frame as they entered the shop, trying to ignore the stares and shocked murmurs.

A pixie in a magnolia dress lounged languidly in a clamshell, her perfect complexion offset by the gleaming mother-of-pearl.  Her bored face brightened as she saw the fairy who led Ulrich.

“Rosehippina!”  she cried, her voice like birdsong.  “How lovely to see you!  You look splendid, darling.  Oh!  And you’ve brought …”  she gaped at Ulrich.  “You brought, a, um … um …”

Rosehippina turned to Ulrich.  “Oh I’m terribly sorry!  I didn’t catch your name.”

Ulrich froze.  A name?  He needed some ridiculous, sappy fairy name quick!  “Uh .. Huggy … Fluff-Berry?”  He cringed.  Goblins did not hug, nor did they eat berries, nor did anything fluffy adorn their abodes.  But he knew he’d have to make some sacrifices if he wanted to be Tooth Goblin.

The two fairies nodded.  “Rosehippina, dear,” said the Fashion Fairy, “would you come here momentarily?  Let us converse about what might best flatter Sister Fluff-Berry’s figure.”  They disappeared behind an embroidered curtain and Ulrich toed the carpet nervously, disrupting the delicate weave of maple stems and moss.  Ulrich tried not to eavesdrop, but their bell-like voices carried well.

“…know she’s surprisingly large and perhaps a bit ungainly, but we must help …”
“…face will make children scream!  We can’t ….”
“…fairy creed of sweetness and light, and we must extend to all fairies regardless of ….”
“…could use a bark dress, they aren’t so fashionable but …”
“…add a little lily pollen for color and accessorize with sweet grass …”
“…go for a more earthy look to compliment her hair color …”

The curtain shuddered and fluttered, and Ulrich heard sawing, popping, and cracking.  When the fairies called him inside, the light was blotted as they immediately yanked a rough dress over his head.  He sputtered as they dumped bright pollen over his scalp, and wheezed as they deftly wove a necklace of grasses and leaves around his neck and wrists.

“Oh dear!”  fretted the Fashion Fairy.  “You have three wings!  We’ll have to modify the dress to allow for them.  How ever did you gain a third wing?”  She began cutting the bark dress carefully.

“It was a gift from a leprachaun,” he said, pleased with his quick wit.

“A leprechaun!” cried Rosehippina.  “Oh, I’ve heard they’re dreadful.  Well, how lovely that diversity flowers and even those we view as ill-tempered still have a compassionate heart, is it not, dear Sister Huggy Fluff-Berry?”

“Oh yes,” he said, his voice squeaking as the Fashion Fairy yanked on a tangled lock of his hair.  “Lovely.  Lephrechauns aren’t bad, actually. They taste like – ”

“The Fashion Fairy looked alarmed and dropped her twig comb.

“I mean they have taste!  Very fine taste like you fairies.  They often dine on gardenias and, erm, unicorn hair, and wear fancy leggings made from, uh ….”

The fairies giggled.  “Oh my, well that certainly explains the disagreeable demeanor of leprechauns!” said Rosehippina, tinkling merrily.  “Everyone knows that unicorn hairs taste wonderful but simply don’t digest.”

“Oh,” said Ulrich as he surveyed his new look in the mirror.  “I never realized that.  No wonder my guts are always rumbling after a unicorn meal.”  The Fashion Fairy hurried to her rose quartz counter and pulled out a handbag made from pastel flowers.  “Here, dear sister, we notice you have no Tooth Collecting purse.  You must have lost yours in the collision.  I’ve an extra you  may have.  This is an unauthorized replica of a more fashionable designer, and it will soon wilt, but it will do for now.”

Rosehippina gazed at him and smiled.  “There! While you may not be the kind of fairy who will be sent to the most fashionable dwellings, you certainly look presentable.  I hope you can forgive me for my careless flying today.”

“Oh, of course,” said Ulrich heartily.  “I am grateful for your special fairy happy smiles!”

“As we are with yours, dear Huggy.  Now, off to the Mother House with you.  It’s time to get your assignments!”

And with a smile, Ulrich squeezed out the door and traipsed down the stone path to the shining crystal palace.  He would soon see Tooth Action!

***

“Dear Marv, I

I aint returning to Gobblinz Hal.  Plees take care of ChiChi, my pet cockroach.  He likes dead squirrel for brekfest, but sumtimes eats rotten apples.”  Ulrich put down the pen and re-read what he wrote.  He inhaled the stench of the substandard cafeteria food and smiled as he listed to the angry talk of the children in their barred rooms.  He continued.  “It sumtimes hard to get into these places, because of all the barred windows and locked doors, but I like the challung.  The Muther Fary always say ‘Juvenile deelinquints need Tooth Farys, too.  Bring them hope for better lifes, and quarters.’  Sumtimes I leave cigarettes, tho.  I will not return to Gobblinz because I now Sister Huggy Fluff-Berry, Tooth Gobblin, and I work the Juvie Hall route.  Send my luv to ChiChi.

Yers Truly,

HUGGY/ULS

P.S.  Next time yoo kill unicorn, pleez leave entrails by old oak tree across from Gobblin Central.  Tell tree thanks from Uls. Don’t eat unicorn hair!  Causes diarrhea.”

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Rockstar Betty vs. Opposable Thumbs

Image of drunk-looking weasel or ferret

Image of drunk-looking weasel or ferretRockstar Betty was a weasel–a hardcore weasel– and wouldn’t take any shit from any punk-ass bitches who got between her and stardom.  It was tough out there in a man’s world; a weasel had to work damned hard to make it to the top.  Voice lessons.  English lessons.  The endless hours of  getting her makeup done and working out.  One lonely evening she was practicing her various poses (such as “Sexy Weasel” and “Tough Weasel” and “Thank-you-for-the-Grammy-Dahling-Weasel”), her annoying younger brother poked his nose into her burrow.“What the hell do you even do, Betty?” he asked.  “Why would anyone make you famous?  All you do is pose and try to speak English.  That’s like being a groupie or something.”

He’d said it: the G-word.  A word that implied loose morals, talentless clinging, and limited lifespan. As he wandered off, she collapsed in the corner to cry.  He was right.  None of the weasel stars in Hollywood associated with poor, backwoods types like her; being a groupie was the best she could expect.

Rockstar Betty straightened with resolve.  She refused to be a groupie!  She knew she had true talent to bestow on the world–she needed only to discover it. For the next several weeks, Betty experimented with avenues to fame.  She first tried acting, thinking her voice lessons could be put to good use.  However, weasel roles in Hollywood were few, and nonexistent in Wisconsin where she lived.  Perhaps she could become a star writer, she thought.  Failure:  her paws could not grip a pen.  This unfortunate lack of opposable thumbs also excluded careers in art, fashion design, and even “Star Sushi Chef.” Everything artistic and worthy of fame required hands with thumbs, not paws with claws.

Betty, never the type to let a dream go unrealized, immediately pawed through her treasured copy of “The Yellow Pages” (marvelous book!  A catalog of everyone in the whole area, and who knew what sordid tales each name contained?) She paused at the “Cosmetic Surgery” section.  Appointments were made.  Consultations were had.  Ridicule was heaped, and requests flatly denied.

“Betty, is it?” said one kindly old surgeon.  “I appreciate your ambition, but I’m afraid I wasn’t trained in veterinary cosmetic surgery.”  He frowned and scratched his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of anyone who is.  There’s just not much demand.”

“But surely I’m not the only weasel in town who wants a hand transplant?” she exclaimed.

The old doctor considered.  “I’m pretty sure you are, actually.”

Betty stomped out the door.  “Ok,” she muttered, “Plastic surgery and hand transplants are out.”

This would have been a great time for a wise fairy to appear and advise Betty on how to achieve her dreams.  But this did not happen due to Betty’s belief that wise fairies didn’t exist.  Unbeknownst to her was a long line of wise fairies pounding at the door between realities, desperate to rush into her awareness and give her the wisdom she needed. But Betty’s belief system simply wouldn’t let her see fairies, no matter how many cartwheels they turned nor how loudly they shouted, “HELLO, YOU ARE A TALKING WEASEL, DON’T YOU THINK THAT FACT MIGHT HELP YOU?”  Betty’s rejection of all things girly and whimsical caused this otherworldly opportunity to pass by.

Despairing, Betty did what all despondent weasels do: she went to the Rodent Bar and ordered an acorn-cap of distilled fermented prairie grass, a loathsome beverage that suited her sour mood.

“What’s wrong, Betty?” asked the bartender as he poured her drink

“I will never be creative and famous,” she sniffled.  “I have no hands, so I can’t hold a paintbrush, a microphone, chopsticks, a guitar, chopping knives, oil crayons, sewing needles, pens, chisels, or purse dogs.”

“Ah,” said the bartender.

“And the plastic surgeons all laughed at me when I asked for a hand transplant.”

“I don’t blame them,” he said.  Then, pitying the poor young weasel whose dreams had been sacrificed to a thankless demon on the altar of reality, he turned to her.

“Betty,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot of forest animals come and go through this crazy bar of mine.  And you—“

She turned her eyes up to him expectantly, a gleam of hope catching the dim light.

“—ain’t nothing special, I gotta say.”

She dropped her head on to the bar with a dismal bang.

“But I think you could make something of yourself if you consider finding fame with what God gave you.”

“Paws?” she mumbled, slurping her drink.

“No. Now think on this: what do weasels do best?”

“Hunt and kill.”

“That’s right.  You’re trying to be something you’re not, using skills and appendages that God didn’t give your kind.  But hunting and killing, well, that’s something you can show the world.”

She snorted and gestured for another brew.  “No one wants to see me hunting and killing.  I’m a vegetarian, remember?”

“Yes, you are.  Now ain’t that unusual?”

(“AND YOU ARE A TALKING WEASEL!” Screeched the helpful fairies behind their dimensional veil, now wilting under the strain of their frustrated efforts at career counseling.)

The bartender motioned toward the door.   “I gotta close up, kiddo, but I’m gonna give you two words: National Geographic. Look ‘em up in that big yellow book of yours.”

Betty took his advice. National Geographic, she discovered, was very interested in hunting and killing.  The managing editor had been toying with the idea of a “vegetarian slaughter” documentary, and Betty was his ideal model, he said.

“Here, dahling, let’s try this scenario.  Imagine with me: there you are, lounging on the prairie, when you spy the slowest, fattest, most tasty mouse.”

“Oh my god, gag me,” Betty said.

“Oh yes, say that again!” The editor motioned the cameras closer.  “Now say it with even more disgust and vigor, like you can barely contain your vomit at the thought of its little mousy skeleton.”

“EWWWW!”

“Perfect, Betty, perfect!”

Thus started Betty’s rapid rise into stardom. She could, it seemed, be famous even without hands.  Models were not required to do anything but convey “a look.”  And if she got look pretty while stalking wild onions rather than mice, then what more could a vegetarian hardcore weasel ask for?

“Finally!” grumbled the helpful fairies as they flew away from the dimensional door, headed toward the Fairy Bar for an acorn-cap of distilled rosewater.  They’d had a hard day.  “Weasels!” griped one.  “They never have the decency to realize when they’re starring in a fairy tale.”

Photo by phoneymanflickr (this is the Weasel Groupie that Rockstar Betty did not wish to be–probably a ferret, actually.  Damn ferrets)
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Features,

Splarks Stories

Weird Stories by Author Kat D Hennessey

Splarks is a short story project. Irreverent. Absurd. Amusing. Intelligent. Plucky. Optimistic. Underdog power. Underwombat power.  Sometimes even undermonotreme power.

As spoken by my beloved Welcome to Nightvale: “for the weirdo in your life, even if that weirdo is you.”

[catlist name=splarks]

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Otherworldly Music

Writing based on OtherWorldly Music by Kat D Hennessey

Otherworldly Music is a flash fiction project inspired by music that blurs the line between the mundane and the magical. It’s otherworldly music: the kind of music that suggests dreams, the interdimensional, altered states, and the in-between.

I listen, I write, and then pair with evocative art (my own or using a Creative Commons license). Got some otherworldly music or art suggestions? Contact me.

THE COLLECTION

[catlist name=otherworldly-music]

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Work With Me

About author Kate Hennessey

What I Can Do For You, and Why I Want To

I help frustrated creatives and disheartened geniuses put words to their great work in the world.

Creatives and geniuses have to decide daily whether to sacrifice their awe-inspiring talent to the practical aspects of business, like writing. Should a band spend their time making music, or should they instead skip their song-writing sessions to draft website copy or fan newsletters?  Should scientists devote their days to experiments and lifesaving inventions, or should they slog through writing yet another grant application to keep the money rolling in?  How about the dance instructor who’s dreaming of opening her own studio–should she focus on creating outstanding dance classes, or on social media posts to draw in students?

To let their creativity shine, they need help with writing. This is my zone of genius. I work with photographers, coaches, writers, academics, yoga instructors, artists, chefs, musicians, entrepreneurs, jewelry makers, writers, art-based small businesses, fashion designers, nonprofit leaders, scientists, spiritual teachers and others who are firmly ensconced in their zone of creative genius, whether they are seasoned pros or just starting out.

Over the past 17 years, I have spent thousands of hours writing: hundreds of papers for healthcare and leadership development, proposals and research papers, dozens of software tutorials, years worth of monthly newsletters, training manuals, reports (annual, quarterly, monthly, etc).  I’ve also written for the arts: magazine articles, web copy, social media posts, marketing materials, and bios.

I have personal interests in spirituality (and where it intersects with science), alternative health, futurism, the social sciences, indie music, yoga, travel, cultivating empathy, and sustainable living.  If your project involves any of those topics, tell me more!  I’ll be especially interested.

Projects I Work On

I typically collaborate with clients who want:

Articles and White Papers Bios Book content
Educational materials or tutorials Email templates Literature review summaries
Marketing materials and press releases Newsletters Online courses
Product descriptions Proofreading Proposals and grant applications
Reports Social media content Website content
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Praise

When I first hired you to ghostwrite the content for my new course Make It With The Moon I had a general idea around how I wanted it to feel and sound and I wondered if that same feeling could be created by someone else, as I had never worked with a ghostwriter before. Not only did you listen to my outline and ideas carefully, but the language, intention, and feeling you created through your words spellbound me. You went above and beyond my expectations and not only did you save me an entire week of working on this myself, you delivered and executed it with absolute grace and ease. I couldn’t be more pleased. Thank you, Kate.” Vienda Maria (writer and mentor)

“As an experimental artist with weird music, it’s sometimes hard to find people who ‘get’ my music and how I want it presented. Kate understood where I was coming from and was open-minded about my ideas for written content. Thank Flying Spaghetti Monster, Kate understands weirdos like me.”  –DRBIOR (musician)

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