W-I-P (Because WIP Looked Too Crowded)

I have the pictures for the washcloth pattern... Now I only need to write the instructions.
Hang tight, folks. ;D

*I'm up to Step 8. as of 3/5/12.

A Year Behind, Psh

Happy 40,000 view anniversary, my dearies. <3

Flash Fiction #1: Ms. Chealsea

Ms. Chealsea

                "So, how's Jerry?" a short man asked nonchalantly, leaning against a brick wall.

                "Same as always, the lying bastard," a dark-haired woman muttered with a grimace, kicking up loose asphalt with her foam sandals.

                "Cheating?"

                Her laugh was full and woody, like talking over the flames of a late night bonfire. "When isn't he?"

                With a flick of his hand, the man's cigarette butt drifted to the ground where he crushed it underneath his size eleven foot; moments later, another replaced the first, scenting the air with the fine quality of unfiltered French culture. "You hate him enough to do this. Takes guts."

                She took a long draw, blowing out a perfectly rounded set of os with her red, puckered lips. "If I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't be. You should know that better than anyone, Mr. Jack."

                "Have we ourselves resorted to chilly formality? Didn't you just call the man a bastard?"

                "I did."

                "Then treat him as such," he suggested, his eyebrows raised in question.

                The woman adjusted her faded red blouse, biting the inside of her mouth until she tasted iron. "I am, Richard. That's why I'm here."

                "You'd be here regardless, wouldn't you, Chealsea."

                "The money's good for an old broad like me."

                "I hardly call thirty old, Chealsea."

                Her eyes burned with the same intensity of her hand-rolled durrie. "If you're part of the business, twelve's an old maid."

                "Plenty would pay." He gestured to each empty street, each alley, each store and home. "You should know that better than anyone, Mrs. Grey."

                "Misses. Not quite sure I like the sound of that. Been much too long." With another puff, she blew out the remainder of her straight, the ashes landing on the pocked skin of her foot. She hardly gave notice.

                "Sometimes, it is indeed better to forget…"

                Suddenly, the door behind them opened to reveal an unshaven man with sweat over his brow, the rusted door he held eerily illuminated in the streetlight. "Break's over! Get over here, Angel. You have three waiting for you over in the back, Blue Room. Emerald Coat's the host. Give 'em the special treatment."

                "Yessir." She turned back to glance at Richard once the door closed, her gaunt cheekbones pulled tight. "I don't forget," the woman began, knuckles white as she held the crusty handle to the door. "Because that's not why I'm here."

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Delving into Flash Fiction: Ms. Chealsea

Ms. Chealsea

                "So, how's Jerry?" a short man asked nonchalantly, leaning against a brick wall.

                "Same as always, the lying bastard," a dark-haired woman muttered with a grimace, kicking up loose asphalt with her foam sandals.

                "Cheating?"

                Her laugh was full and woody, like talking over the flames of a late night bonfire. "When isn't he?"

                With a flick of his hand, the man's cigarette butt drifted to the ground where he crushed it underneath his size eleven foot; moments later, another replaced the first, scenting the air with the fine quality of unfiltered French culture. "You hate him enough to do this. Takes guts."

                She took a long draw, blowing out a perfectly rounded set of os with her red, puckered lips. "If I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't be. You should know that better than anyone, Mr. Jack."

                "Have we ourselves resorted to chilly formality? Didn't you just call the man a bastard?"

                "I did."

                "Then treat him as such," he suggested, his eyebrows raised in question.

                The woman adjusted her faded red blouse, biting the inside of her mouth until she tasted iron. "I am, Richard. That's why I'm here."

                "You'd be here regardless, wouldn't you, Chealsea."

                "The money's good for an old broad like me."

                "I hardly call thirty old, Chealsea."

                Her eyes burned with the same intensity of her hand-rolled durrie. "If you're part of the business, twelve's an old maid."

                "Plenty would pay." He gestured to each empty street, each alley, each store and home. "You should know that better than anyone, Mrs. Grey."

                "Misses. Not quite sure I like the sound of that. Been much too long." With another puff, she blew out the remainder of her straight, the ashes landing on the pocked skin of her foot. She hardly gave notice.

                "Sometimes, it is indeed better to forget…"

                Suddenly, the door behind them opened to reveal an unshaven man with sweat over his brow, the rusted door he held eerily illuminated in the streetlight. "Break's over! Get over here, Angel. You have three waiting for you over in the back, Blue Room. Emerald Coat's the host. Give 'em the special treatment."

                "Yessir." She turned back to glance at Richard once the door closed, her gaunt cheekbones pulled tight. "I don't forget," the woman began, knuckles white as she held the crusty handle to the door. "Because that's not why I'm here."

Ms. Chealsea by Kayla Balda is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at Kaylakulture.blogspot.com.

Be Honest

Be honest.
You're not here for my literary wonders.
You're here for the patterns.
I'm working on it.

WIP:
Sewing: Any interest on how to turn a hand towel into an overnight toiletry bag? (because I've done it.)

Learning to knit: How the heck do you purl?
Crochet (is on the back burner): I'm thinking about it. Sometimes.


******** Want me to figure something out? Try something new? Show how to make the bag?
Ask. Comment. C'mon. Someone. 
I'm here, blogging here, for you! The people! 
Nowwwwww, "Tell me whatcha want, what ya really really want!"*********

La Musique et le Roman

Je suis femme écrivain.
I am a writer and no one will stop me.
I will rise above all odds, an awesome wave.
I will divide and conquer (Q.What else does that?).
I am a writer and my books will stand like proud soldiers, fluttering on paper wings and not midst the sea of cyberspace. 


My friends are musicians and they are about to rock your world. (I would add a tsunami joke, but that's tsu inappropriate, isn't it? Honhonhon.)


MY FEATURED FRIEND OF THE FOREVER:

Alaina Krakowiak


Every art this girl has touched contains a certain finesse, a secret, a mystery sauce. Individuality more than you've ever seen before.


She has the most concentrated talent I have ever seen.
Even more than "man who can hang 50 pounds from his ears"
And "woman who can smash cans with her volumptuous breasts."
I mean, damn, I'm so prouud to he graced by her friendship! (so proud there's even an extra "u.")
If you don't get my immediate point, then I shall continue with my infinite string of badly thought out simi-phors.
...
Haha. Not really. I have to conserve them for use later. Stand up comedy or something... yeah...
...
Because I know the only one who reads the written/opinionated-non-crochet patterns is me, I'll inform you all (read: me) on her new endevor--
Musical production.
She (modestly) played her music from an iPod one day as we were chill-axin (my diction!) in her chic room.
It started off with how many layers--- 16?
It was haunting and enchanting and fascinating and delicious (delicious!).
I never said this aloud, fore my mouth was perpetually stuck open and probably drooling in bewonderment, but.... "Now damn. I'd tap that."
Please. Please. (PLEASE!) Check out this budding internet star so in the future, you may say, "I saw her first!!!"


She's done covers.
She has her own album.
Singles, no prob. (I've been promising to put this here forever, so now one's been created. And it's beautiful.)
In her newest single, Starlight, her voice is so tender, comforting, and an all-over encompassment of what it means to be home .
I can't wait to hear what else this prolific artist has for us!


With love to Alaina who secretly knows this is all true,


Kayla the also-awkwardly-budding-author. <3

You can access all of her music here: http://alainakrakowiak.bandcamp.com

Best part, it's all completely free to download.

(But she'd appreciate any donations toward her music career.)

I'll add more comments pertaining to each song at a later time.

^ (I don't even know what I wrote, this is from a few months ago, because I, my good sirs and dames, am a procrastinator.)

ANSWER: Bacteria. <3
The heart is totally optional. I put it there for the pizazz.

The Coughies

*COUGH HACK COUGH*

It's important to get your daily antioxidants and vitamins, folks!
So go eat an orange or drink some tea. I command it of you!

Speaking of tea, try Red Rose, the only tea those comes with a prize inside.
And the only tea that my grandmother drinks. She's Polish, so you know it's got to be good!

I feel like such a child again <3 with my orange cat.
And you know, I thought it was so MAGICAL (c'mon, my black tea just regifted me!) that I put it with all of my hoarded Depression Glass.
((if anyone wants to send me some, please do *COUGH COUGH COUGH*))

Oops, my apologies for the germ spreading. I had a sudden, irrelevant coughing fit. C:

...
Shut up and get out those postage stamps!!