Please Do Not Touch!

Chris Lane

Some humans would do anything to see if it was possible to do it. If you put a large switch in some cave somewhere, with a sign on it saying ‘End-of-the-World Switch. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH’, the paint wouldn’t even have time to dry.

Source: Terry Pratchett, Thief of Time

Photo: Chris Lane, Elevator Switch

Inky’s Take: Ahhh, just so you know, it’s not a large switch it’s a rather nondescript faded blue button.  It’s not in a cave somewhere, it’s in the middle of Hoboken Terminal, Hoboken, NJ.  Anddd… the sign doesn’t say ‘End-of-the-World-Switch PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH’ it says ‘Down’.  Just thought you might like to know, you know, just in case you’re ever in the vicinity and get the urge…

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Nerkle, word?

dictionary So, what’s a Nerkle?

The Urban Dictionary & The Unword Dictionary describes a nerkle as (n) someone who keeps his Christmas lights up all year and doesn’t throw away their tree!   A combination of the words, nerd and sparkle.

But, there is…

The Nerkle Business Modelling Solution located somewhere down under..  Australia for those geographically challenged, like me.

Nerdbeach – which owns a Nerkle, a Nerd and of all things a Seersucker who specialize in beachcombing the future, aka tech and gaming!  Tell me you didn’t see that coming?

An artist named Nerkle on deviantart – her real name is Bethany, but who’s telling?

A Nerkle Group in the UK that does photo restoration, has a science teacher and can answer simple curiosity questions.  I’m curious as to who else is in the group?  Answer?  Anyone?

There’s a Nerkle family history at, who knew?

There’s even a Nerkle on Youtube with one video of an ‘angry Welsh lady’ …. 

…and on the list goes.

So see Nerkle is a word, and here you thought there was nothing new under the sun. 

Now, if you will excuse me I think I’ll go unplug my Christmas lights… *ahem*…

Photo: Petr Kratochvil


..on escapes with fantasy

the-railroad-goes-into-the-distance Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisioned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape?. . .If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!

Source: J.R.R. Tolkien

Photo: Larisa Koshkina

Inky’s Note: One of my greatest personal treasures is my Imagination.  It was the blacksmith that tempered my steel, the knight that evoked my bravery, the soft whisper that saved my sanity, and the attentive lover that wrapped me in it’s arms when I was most alone.

Bayou Sauvage #6


He studied the ceiling and waited for the numbness in his limbs to recede. With patience born of habit he marked the lines running above him and let his thoughts linger on his present problem with one little kitten.

His nails ripped the satin sheets. She had reluctantly agreed to work as a mule in exchange for getting rid of her father’s debt, but that didn’t imply cooperation. Like the wild cat she was, she fought him every step of the way forcing his hand into violence, like last night.

She needed taming, and Dak – against orders – had pulled his punch both times exposing a weakness. He snarled, shredding satin. The bodyguard feared him, he was sure of it. The girl despised him, much to his chagrin, and while he wanted her, that didn’t mean he needed the guard.

But it amused him, much like watching a fly devoid of its wings, to see them struggle toward escape. There was no escape! He held their lives within the palm of his hand they should know he was their god! His fingers closed squeezing into a tight fist until blood seeped from where his nails buried into the skin. He lifted his hand and sucked at the crimson rivulets. While the guard was a walking corpse on borrowed time, he had big plans for Kitty, if only she would do what she was told. He sluggishly pushed himself up, and turned toward the sunlight invading the room. The warmth rejuvenating him.

He sneered as he thought of all the false information about his kind that he persistently maintained. Contrary to the stories the sun was not his enemy. He was a cold-blooded creature of the night, yes, but sunlight provided him warmth pushing away the numbness that invaded after the blood energy dwindled.

He slipped nude from bed, and stretched before fully opening his blinds allowing the light to ripple along defined muscle. He was the apex predator; young, strong, fast, and as soon as he fed, full of energy. Thankful for the violence that erupted against him in the 60’s. Glad he had been left bleeding in that broken alley. And immensely grateful for the sinister shadow that had bent licking at his wounds. He didn’t remember that night, until the awakening three days later feeling better than he ever had before in his whole sad, sorry life but with an urgent need.

He laughed out loud as he remembered his first feeding. Sloppy, full of mistakes, he’d been a neonate then, vulnerable, defenseless but he had survived! Now he was invincible.

He pushed away from the window, and settled at his computer. In keeping with his secrets he worked during the day, and played at night. They thought him dead to the world at this time. What did he care, it fit with his plans. But for now, he rubbed his hands together, there remained the taming of a little kitten who didn’t understand who was master.

Word Count: 497

Photo: HongKiat

Inky & writing..

Mr Grossman of Time best defined it back in 2011: “Fan-fiction is what literature might look like if it were reinvented from scratch after a nuclear apocalypse by a band of brilliant pop-culture junkies trapped in a sealed bunker. They don’t do it for money. That’s not what it’s about. The writers write it and put it up online just for the satisfaction. They’re fans, but they’re not silent, couch bound consumers of media. The culture talks to them, and they talk back to the culture in its own language.”

I really liked the ‘brilliant pop-culture junkies’ reference but suffered some qualms about the sealed in a bunker scenario somehow that just sounded, uhm.. sweaty.

I write fan fiction. I do it to exercise my writing muscle. I tried taking the well known course of keeping a daily journal but found within two months, I simply did not have anything of interest to say to myself, about myself. Sobering, huh? Then I discovered fan-fiction. For a long time I simply read, and kept my journal. Researched, and ignored my journal. Read some more and used my journal for kindling in the fireplace.

Then I opened my laptop, and began to write.  It was like balloons, and hot dogs at the county fair, jet skis, and freshwater tubing, sneaking out for a date, getting your first kiss and not getting caught. In other words, F.U.N! Before long I was letting my imagination have free rein and I discovered it was larger, a tad bit more naughtier than I knew, and always, always up for the adventure.

With each story, my writing muscle grew leaner, meaner, and before long frankly I fell in love.  Which shouldn’t have been surprising since I always went for the lean, tough guys.

What was I going on about? Just this, write what excites you, what lets you sit in front of the laptop typing frantically as tears waterfall down your cheeks, or you burst out laughing fingers clacking away. Because writing is a conversation between you and your imagination.  Your fingers acting as the dutiful secretary  recording for prosperity your soul smeared on paper for everyone to examine.  With that kind of price tag if it’s not at least half way fun, what’s the purpose?  Why do it?

By the way, the laughing out loud, and the waterfall of tears part while typing? Yea, same night in the span of an hour during which my family threatened to call Fire and Rescue what a hullabaloo!

In the end, the story got rave reviews and my imagination and I, were healthier, happier, ready to conquer another plot line, and miscreant characters.  This time, though, they were my own.

Bayou Sauvage Chapter 1


The drone of bullfrogs, and crickets stilled as a heavy darkness spilled across the green mire of swamp water, and slithered across the boat’s hull like cold oil.  A fission of awareness erupted into tiny bumps across his skin.  Heart thudding, he shivered against the momentary unseasonable cold whisperings and peered into the night.   He waited, but no lights flared, there was no sound of water being disturbed by an oar, or the thud of feet upon the bank, still he remained uneasy . Focusing on the task at hand he quickly tighten the rope and secured it in an old sailor’s knot.

‘That should do it,’ he rasped before reaching between his legs, and lifting the well secured cargo by one end.  Struggling with the heavy load, his muscle’s screamed as the boat rocked slightly with the harsh movement.  He froze, muscles tense, and let the boat’s rocking ease before expelling a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  Grunting, his stance steady, he tightened his hold and lifted the object to the boat’s lip.

Sweat glistened then fell from beneath the hair at his temples,  He swiped at it with the hem of his shirt and studied the rope crowned tarp. He was getting to old for this kind of work, he grumbled as he bent and pushed slightly at the load resting on the boat edge before moving down its side to the head.  Cold hunger filled eyes surrounded him as he studied the tarp’s outline long enough to catch his breath.

It really was too bad, he lifted the head and maneuvered it to the side of the boat and let it rest for moment. She had been such a bright girl, a pretty face, with a sweet disposition.  He shook his head against the flash of regret then pushed the human filled tarp into the murky depths with a dull splash.   He watched the tarp sink as the added weight of the cinder blocks did their work.

A knowing silence filled the swamp as the gurgling of the sinking tarp slowly ended with it’s disappearance below the murky surface. The latest in a long line of secrets he figured as he raised a well used whiskey bottle and took a deep drink.  Running his arm across his mouth he sat and followed the slow burn through his chest as the swamp recovered.  It was eerily quiet with only the whine of a mosquito swarm, before the gentle splash of a fish, then cricket song, followed quickly with a big cat’s anger filled howl in the far distance as reflective eyes peered intently at him from the water’s edge.

Lifting the whiskey bottle again he drew deeply only to choke, then erupt into ragged coughs, spewing flecks of blood into his fist, his chest on fire.  His breath labored he wiped his lips, and moved to the oars. The Boss – he shivered hands tightening on the oars – would be waiting.

Drabble – 493 words.


computer typing

Drabble (Noun) – an extremely short work of fiction of exactly one hundred words in length, not necessarily including the title.  It’s purpose is brevity, and the expression of ideas in a confined space. 

That’s the common definition, I use the term rather loosely not confining myself to the 100 word limit.  I have decided to write a Drabble Story starting this week, fiction of course.

The story will have short chapters of no more than 500 words, until its ending.  How many chapters will be involved I cannot say since the characters have always determined the pace, motives, and length.

It’s name is Bayou Sauvage.  It’s reason; fifteen years ago I created a game for an online social network.  I wrote the premise, the background story, the characterizations, the rules, and was the writer of many of the storylines until I walked away from it ten years ago.  I spent a lot of time researching, building the characters and storylines and I grew to love the story itself.  So I decided to bring it back to life because I can.  I hold the copyright…..

Seeds of Love

majestic tree

Firelight stories told around the lake tell and retell the legend of two lovers, eloping across the lake only to be caught in a late summer storm. The closest place to land was a small barren island open to the whip of an angry wind, and the cold needles of rain. He helped her to the uppermost reaches away from the frothing, wild waves, and held her within his arms as the storm raged unabated.

Midday the next day the storm finally broke and the girl’s father wasted no time putting out all boats in a search for his daughter. It was his neighbor who found the smashed remains of the couple’s boat floating around the small island jutting out of the lake. Quickly he called to the girl’s father and within moments the father put his boat to shore and surged up to the emptiness above. Long moments he stood in the fading light watching the waves lap against the shoreline knowing he had arrived too late…

Life went on and with the coming of the new Spring two shoots surge upward toward the warming sun, leaning close together they grow undisturbed in the sun’s warmth and in the winter they shelter together in the snow.  Time passes and they grown stronger intertwining until they become one tree, inseparable.   A testament to love? Perhaps, but then again the practical say it could have been seed pods left by the father’s boots…

Which do you believe?