November is coming…

one-does-not-simply-a - One does not simply change "winter" to "november"

Actually, it seemed simple enough to me…

Confused?  “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Still confused?  Well…

Anyway, starting tomorrow, the Kingdom will be awash with humor, silliness, fantasy, essays, poems, magic, children’s stories, and a bunch of other randomness and excitement.

There will be (at least) daily posts. – That’s my job.

There will be comments galore. – That’s your job.

I have 18 posts written and scheduled.  The 19th is in my head waiting to be typed out.  I’ve heard a rumor the challenge/prompt/whatever for the 20th might be headed my way soon.  That means I need 10 more to fill up that month!  I’ve already written 3 filler posts, please don’t make me write 10 more!!  Tell me, what can I write for you?

And if you’ve already sent me one challenge but have another idea, go ahead and send it my direction too.

And to all those Cheer Peppers out there:  You’ve got this.  You are amazing.

So, happy reading and writing however you spend your month.



The night settles in, wrapping the forest in a loving embrace, warm and familiar. Vines tangle and tighten as they close their ranks for the dark hours. Trees sway gently in an evening breeze that brushes away the triumphs of the day. Water drips from outstretched leaves to fall noiselessly into the soft ground. The moon and stars flare over the canopy and tendrils slip through to twist and dance in the gloom below.

Padded feet carry the hunters secretively down worn paths. Beacon eyes, green and split by pools of chaos, blaze despite the lack of light and sway in rhythm to the unheard movements. Those lethal orbs are the only evidence of the beasts’ passing and those who share the jungle hope and pray they never pause and take notice when journeys of survival cross.

Only the foolish and the mad venture away from the villages at night, when all else agree the thirsty eyes hold dominion. The occasional fool thinks it will be an act of bravery to prove their worth and defy the odds, even though the screams of previous fools must still echo in their memory. There is no accounting for the mad, who perhaps have simply lost the will to wake and struggle.

So, why, it might be asked, was I among the trees and stars that night all those moons ago, lost and not lost while the hours continued to slip further away from daylight? I wasn’t one to boast, to beat my chest and demand attention. I wasn’t so sure of my strength, speed, and cunning to pit my mortal body against the hunters of the night. I was not one of the foolish, which means I must have been mad.

I was mad.

And the beasts felt it when they found me, held me within their green stares of death, sniffed out my worth to them, and released me unharmed. My particular brand of madness was nothing they wanted to waste their time on. There was better prey, healthier for their souls, to track and devour. Though the eyes haunt me always, even during the bright days of long summer, they blinked out that night and left me alone with my thoughts and frailties.

I waited for morning, frozen equally from the cold, the terror, the joy, and the madness, before stumbling through the grasping vines and branches back to the safety of the village. There I was met by friends and family wielding spears. They turned me back into the forest for only the son of a devil, a witch, or a demon could survive a night isolated among the ravages of the forest’s heart. They wanted nothing to do with any of the possibilities, cursed me for mad, and exiled me.

I found a home among the beasts, not as an equal, and not as a threat or ally. I just existed. After a time, life grew easy again. Things were simpler. Truths were clearer. I began to enjoy the wild life under the canopy with the dance of the moon and stars. Perhaps that is fitting…

The madness remained.


He sat at his desk, waiting for inspiration, for a muse to spark a fire in him, but the words, and the muse, never came.  He’d never had to sit around before.  He’d never had to cast about for ideas.  The words, the characters, the dialogue had always just come to him.  It seemed that would no longer be the case.

At times he thought the light was finally switching on and he’d race to dip his pen in ink so he could scribble down the thoughts before they disappeared, but the bulb never really did fire up.  Instead it merely flickered, showing him glimpses of genius, partial story lines, half a plot, faceless characters.   The light was on only long enough to hint at something to write about but never stayed on long enough to give him enough to truly use.

He went mad in the flickering half light.


Word Count: 150

My short (and sweet?) response to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge:

LIGHT (noun)

1a : something that makes vision possible
b : the sensation aroused by stimulation of the visual receptors
c : electromagnetic radiation of any wavelength that travels in a vacuum with a speed of about 186,281 miles (300,000 kilometers) per second; specifically : such radiation that is visible to the human eye
2a : daylight
b : dawn
3: a source of light: as
a : a celestial body
b : candle   

Please remember:

  • Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
  • You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
  • The word itself needs to be included in your response.
  • You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
  • Only one entry per writer.
  • If you know your post does not meet the requirements of the challenge, please leave your link in the comments section, not in the linkz.
  • Trifecta is open to everyone.  Please join us.

true story*

I woke feeling like it was going to be another boring day: shower, dress, toast and coffee, drive, work, sandwich and soda, work, drive, TV, pasta and wine, more TV, sleep…

I was wrong.

It’s taken me a long time to tell this story because it’s taken me a long time to come to terms with what happened, with what the toaster did and how I handled it.  I’m telling it now though because I realized that warning all of you, warning my faithful kingdom, is more important than distancing myself from … from …  well, you’ll see.


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The alarm went off and my eyes shot open.  I was on my stomach, which was weird, but it was too early, and I was too tired and disoriented to really give that much thought.

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However, I did think about getting out of bed, and decided that was a terrible idea.

Seeing as how the alarm would continue it’s shrill beeping until I did get up, I had no other choice.  I rose, turned off the stupid annoying troublesome “insert four letter word here” -ing alarm, showered, dressed, and generally just woke up enough to face my day.

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If you’ve been paying attention you’ll notice that I’d successfully navigated through the usual routine of my day up to the point of having my toast and coffee for breakfast.  And that is exactly where my day took a dramatic turn for the worse.

The toaster wouldn’t work.

I can’t have toast without a toaster.

In my rushed, and starting to panic state, I might have slapped it around a bit.  I honestly don’t remember.

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I am certain that I freaked out though.

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Then, gathering myself, I asked the toaster politely why it was intentionally trying to ruin my day.

I questioned its sanity.

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I flailed a bit more.

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I tried to understand its inner workings, its logic, its reasons for not working, for thwarting my routine, for becoming my ultimate nemesis after years of a successful partnership.

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When that didn’t work, I flailed a bit more.  In retrospect, I think my tenuous grasp on sanity was slipping.

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I did the chicken dance.  I… I… I have no idea why.

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I blanked out for a minute after the chicken dance.

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I’d like to think it was my body taking a minute to quietly reflect on that fact that not getting my toast wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.  But, I’m fairly certain that I blanked out because I didn’t want to remember the moment when I finally cracked.

When I “woke up” again, I felt this pulling sensation, this growing need to eat.  I was starting to starve.

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So, I did the most logical thing I could think of at the time.  I tried to eat my own hand.

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Thankfully, before I did any real damage, it occurred to me that wasn’t actually a very sensible thing to do.  I once again questioned my sanity.

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Shortly afterwards, when the gnawing in my stomach subsided and I calmed down, I realized that I needed to stop questioning myself.  I would still be okay even if I didn’t follow my routine.  I needed to be strong.  I needed to tell my self doubts to go away.

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So, I raspberried my toaster.

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And I came to terms with myself and my situation.

I shook my head and laughed at myself, thinking about being reduced to a flailing, blubbering, fool over a broken toaster and a messed up routine.

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I relived the craziness and laughed about it on my drive to work.

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I relived the craziness and laughed about it at work.

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In the end, I successfully made it through my day without having had my toast, and I learned a valuable lesson: don’t let your routine own you.

Okay, that’s not the lesson I learned, but it sounds better than the truth.  What’s the real lesson then, you ask?

Always, always have a back up toaster!

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And now I’ve shared my story with you, so that you too can learn from it.  Pick whichever lesson makes the most sense to you…


*This is not a true story.  You can see the post that inspired this silliness here.

Guest Post – StephRogers: but, the grass needs mowing

Do you know Steph?  You do?  Great! 

And if you don’t, well she writes over at She Said What

She’s guest blogging at The Matticus Kingdom today and, apparently, she said this:

When thematticuskingdom put out the call for guest bloggers I thought ‘what is it that his lordship would like to read?’ and hey presto! He’s into football. He also follows MUFC just like my hubby (I can’t remember where I read that on his blog. Just trust me it’s there somewhere!). Anyway so I thought I would post about football from a wife’s perspective…

Hubby works 6 days a week. Plus we are business owners so the stress and workload is overwhelming, and doesn’t stop when the shop shuts. Basically hubby works a lot. I look after kids and home practically all the time without a break. Life can be hard at times. We rarely spend time together. When he gets time off I have a list of things that need doing, normally in the yard, because it’s impossible for me to get out there and do it while supervising the children. Under these circumstances, with the grass so tall that I can’t see the dog until he emerges from the rustling canopy onto the doorstep, with the pool bright green and completely unswimable, with the roof leaking in the laundry and the vegetable crisper from our fridge strategically placed in the roof space under the drip to stop the laundry flooding, hubby decides that he will spend his only day off in the week at a football game. He has to go and watch his beloved Western Sydney Wanderers play.

dog in grass
My dog is practically invisible in this grass

I totally cracked it and accused him of choosing football over his family. He said that wasn’t it at all and I just didn’t understand. Yes. He’s totally right. I don’t understand.

Aside from the being out at football games, there are a few more things that shit me about the football. He must watch the games. This sometimes means staying up til crazy hours because time zones dictate the MUFC games are usually on around 3am. It’s not the game watching per se. It’s the yobbo-ness that it inspires. The “yes” *fist pump, every time a goal is scored, the drunken yelling, cheering and abusing the TV (if I had balls to scratch it would inspire ball-scratching). The obsession with football twitter feeds and shows about football. I mean what’s duller than a football game? Listening to dull ex-players who were not chosen for their interpersonal skills discuss the pros and cons of a team or of a game that was on last week. Um… isn’t there grass growing somewhere? I was proud of him for taking to twitter and putting down a few immature men who found the need to make comments about a female presenter looking better in a bikini or something. That was awesome of him *chest swelling with pride.

Smoke bomb at the game
Hubby took this picture from his seat in the stands. It’s crazy!

The next annoying thing is the merchandise. Hubby needs the shirts, my sons need the shirts, we need hats and shorts and socks and posters and all sorts of crap that costs $100 extra because it has a logo on it. A plain red shirt will not do. They get you coming and going really.

Hubby went to England to visit his grandfather who lives there. He spent a whole day at Old Trafford while his grandfather sat in the coffee shop and drank coffee and killed time. Yeah that was a bonding moment.

MUFC tour
Hubby does a tour of Old Trafford
Opa in coffee shop
Meanwhile… Opa drinks coffee, lots of coffee

Really what it all comes down to is the tribalism. That’s what I really can’t stand. The us and them. I would ask why they can’t just share the ball but I’m not completely insane. The Western Sydney Wanderers  active supporters (called the Red and Black Bloc or RBB) are notorious. Here’s footage of pre-game antics in a recent game against Sydney FC

All these people are spending all this time and money watching a bunch of guys run around a field and kick a ball back and forth. All these people could be spending their time and money solving global warming, helping children in third world countries, or hell, even mowing grass!

I talk tough but the truth of the matter is that I do get it. It is about escapism. When the world is stressful and work is hard, when the list of jobs at home seems never-ending, when there is war and famine and impending environmental doom it is nice to be able to forget all that shit, put on your team colours, and go and stand with the supporters while you yell and scream and sing at the top of your lungs. When your team scores that goal it’s like your happiness knows no bounds. I get it. I love my hubby, and life is not easy for him at the moment, or ever really. So I rearrange the world so he can go to watch his Western Sydney Wanderers play. Yes occasionally I crack the shits and yell. But I feel bad afterwards. He needs the escape. If only I could get into it. I think I’ll stick to knitting.

the boys at the game
Hubby and number 1 son at the WSW game (dressed in their team colours of course!). I guess it’s not so bad.


I’m not entirely sure how someone could enjoy knitting over cheering on the finest football (soccer) club in the world; but, we never presume to know everything here in the kingdom.  Besides I’m just the jester, I don’t have to know the same things a king would have to know (favorite colors, my quest, the average airspeed velocities of both African and European swallows, etc…)

More Steph you should read: