Category Archives: Thoughts

The Turning: A Masterpiece by the Great Sarah Silvey

 

Hey kids! Shameless promo here: my book doesn’t suck.

Dark fantasy. It’s got monsters, blood n guts, good friends, terrible enemies, swordfights, adventure, psychic powers. You know you’re curious. You like my writing, right? So why wouldn’t you like the book? It’s lots of fun, with just the right amount of fucked-up. I’ve had a smattering of reviews so far, all positive.

On Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Turning-Sarah-Silvey-ebook/dp/B01CKK36YY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1533050208&sr=8-1&keywords=the+turning+sarah+d+silvey

On Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/599602

On Itunes… here? Not sure because I have a PC, but you can at least use this as a starting point:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-turning/id1068588451?mt=11

On Barnes and Noble:
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-turning-sarah-silvey/1123130931?ean=2940152518016

I am insanely grateful to anyone who buys it. If you leave a review (preferably a kind one) I will have big puppy eyes for you. And if you leave an unkind review, I will go walleyed and wander off a cliff. Just kidding. I’m already walleyed just from bringing attention to myself. < _ >

I’m getting impatient with work again. It’s driving me to further myself creatively. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to just stay home and write all day, every day…

Maximum love and minimum crazy,

–Sarah

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Sparkle trees

 

When the trees are glossed in ice
and the sun glances through them with rising fire
They bat the light back and forth, a plaything
And I think
AAAAAAAAAAA THE TREES ARE SPARKLY!!!
*eyes bulge*

 

Sorry. Poetry is just too grandiose, my brain can’t go there when all that’s running through my tiny mind are oh my fucking god the trees are sparkly, sparkles sparkles sparkles. I’ve regressed. Just in typing this, I’ve keyboard smashed so much that I accidentally opened up a bunch of weird windows for which I didn’t know there were keyboard hotkeys, like an HTML debugger. If it’s not what the sparkles have done to my brain, it’s what the cold has done to my fingers.

 

Here’s something random. My boyfriend writes songs for fun. Every once in a while I’ll sing one of his songs for him. Hopefully these blues will gently bring us all back down from the sparkle high.

 

 

How cold is it?

 

It’s so cold outside.

“How cold is it?”

It’s so cold, I couldn’t go for a run, or even a walk, without turning right around and going back inside.

It’s so cold it was not a one-pants, not a two-pants, but a three-pants day.

It’s so cold that my house window was iced shut.

It’s so cold that Cowdog Creatives’ car refused to open its door and afford me shelter. 

It’s so cold that I could lean my weight against the bitter wind and lose my eyesight at the very same time.

It’s so cold that if I opened my mouth to talk, the wind on my teeth felt like biting ice cream.

It’s so cold that work sent an email blast giving us tips on how to dress warm. Apparently layering is key?? Do I wear my waterproof jacket on the inside or the outside layer? Are gloves a good idea? Still confused on how to dress warm, need more help.

 

And it’s just. Getting. Colder.

 

When I was a kid, I loved the cold. I was just brimming with vitality, and layered with brown fat, a little living toaster. I always warmed my friends’ hands for them. My resistance to cold was a point of pride. But I’m just getting older and wimpier with each passing day. I prefer bed to everything. Bed is warmest. If I must leave the house, you’d better believe I’ll be wearing my hat and scarf and gloves and several outfits.

I blame the cats. They sleep on my feet every night and keep me warm, thus raising my heat threshold. In the words of every old man I’ve read about but never met, I’m gettin’ soft. Need to start sleeping on the floor, it’s good for the back.

Oh God I just aged again didn’t I?? It happens when you stop paying attention!

I tell Cowdog Creatives that we must never let errant gas escape us without the other calling us out on it. I don’t want belches and farts to stop being funny. I don’t mind the wrinkles and I really don’t mind the cold but please, don’t let the farts stop being funny.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Journal – No sound of crickets here

 

Yesterday was my birthday. Since my birthday is a national holiday, quite a few people were allowed to stay home. Instead of working I chased my nephew and nieces around outside, sat in front of a fire, and had a nice dinner.

The kids had erected a steep five foot slide out of the snow, with no stairs. It was packed slick from many kid butts, so the only way to really use it was to throw yourself facefirst over the side wall and then slide down on your belly like a penguin. The kids managed to sled down it, go down on their knees, all kinds of tricks. I was just happy to be able to manage the penguin thing.

For my birthday present, I made my sister buy me cricket powder. Then we made cricket crackers (the cricket-eating community like to call these “chirps” instead of chips) and her whole family was forced to eat them with dinner. It was all that I could have asked for and more!

We learned that crickets taste odd. Very earthy. They’re little earth golems, so they taste like dirt, cocoa, mushrooms, strange buggy overtones, and the occasional tiny gravel crunch that makes you stop chewing and go… what part was that? All in all a very brown flavor.

I could get to like them. They’re healthy, sustainable, and a source of protein in many other cultures. But it’d take some training, some mental gymnastics, and a lot more cricket powder. It’s too expensive! And why should I work so hard to train myself to enjoy a food which would just further cull me from the herd?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Journal – How to be Cool at the Boba Tea Place

I’m all out of (good) poems, so here’s a story from my day.

 

 

Cowdog Creatives and I went to our favorite boba tea place yesterday.

320px-bubble_tea

I don’t think everyone has had boba tea before (please correct this ASAP), but when they give you the tea at this place, they give you a clear plastic cup, and they laminate a plastic film over the top instead of popping on a conventional lid. You are also handed an oversized, stabby-ended straw. Then you get to stab your beverage. This part alone worth the four dollars.

Being whatever the fuck I am, one day I decided to order an avocado flavored one. It came to me vivid green and unsettlingly viscous. I commenced the drink stabbing ritual. But the cup was flimsy, and I hadn’t supported it correctly. The film was only partially perforated by my action. Instead, all of the pressure I applied went into crumpling the cup, which in turn pressurized the contents, which ejaculated out of the hole I’d made and coated the counter and floor in neon green avocado flavored boba tea. As a final indignity, the cup fell over lamely, spilling more.

This was of course hilarious. Cowdog Creatives and I laughed ourselves weak. I grabbed a handful of napkins to mop up the mess, not noticing the little ceramic napkin weight on top of the stack. It got hefted and landed hard with a teeth-gritting clank, but did not, by some miracle, break. So that was just more awkward.

I realized, after we’d inexpertly wiped up the mess, that the nice Asian clerks, usually ineffably kind and patient, hadn’t lifted a finger to help us. They just sort of pretended we weren’t there.  Was this penance? Or perhaps this was the polite thing to do in their minds?

It turned out to be a stroke of luck that I spilled much of that blasted drink, because it turned out to be weird, rich, heavy, regrettable.

 

Yesterday we were in the same shop. There was a guy next to us with three friends, and he did the exact same thing. He failed to quickly and humanely execute his beverage. It bled out two-thirds of the contents all over the floor, an even bigger mess than my own epic one.

I told him not to feel bad, I’d done the same thing once. They asked the clerks for paper towels and a roll was passed over the counter to them. Once again, the guests ended up cleaning the majority of their own mess. The cashier actually did come out with a mop this time, but too late, the mess was already gone, along with the entire paper towel roll.

As we were leaving, we overheard the guy say, “why is everyone in here helping me clean this up, except my own girlfriend?”

She alone sat placidly sipping her drink, unconcerned by his public outing of her behavior.

 

The moral of this story is, go drink boba tea, but support the walls of your cup if you want to perform a clean execution. It tastes better without the shame, manual labor, or avocado.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

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