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The Book Witch

       There are two kinds of people who mass consume things. One group calls themselves critiques or consoles, that they merely ingest a lot because they are trying to find the best and must weed out all the horrible things in order to find it. The other group lets themselves be called gluttons, they arguably enjoy what they are consuming more because they don’t need to feel the need to explain themselves to anyone. Alice knew which group she belonged to.      Alice was a story glutton. Her love was in the classic tomes of Sherlock Holmes, Anne of Green Gables, Jane Eyre, and Don Quixote . It also had spread to Hunger Games, A Matter of Days, The Fault In Our Stars, Ready Player One, and Harry Potter. Her love touched poetic longing and trashy romance alike. It danced in battles and in dark alleys. It covered innocence to sin with a gentle touch. It lingered in the plots of movies, from the Oscar winners to the b movies found in the free bin at a Goodwill. It had settled like a cloud
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A Little Talk About Inequality

A Little Talk About Inequality     It's hard to write about inequality when you’re white, when you know it’s easy for you because you’ve never had that fight. But I am a writer and my words are my weapons. Violence isn’t the answer to the problems we’re facing but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fight. It’s easier to ignore all the problems that you hear about just because they don’t affect you or those you care about. But we have to stop pretending we can’t see. While those with the power to change sit in their places of power and look down from above people still have to fight for the right to live and love. And it's not right. Maybe we say all created equal but it's a lie and we know it because there are so many born without the right to speak and there are so many who are denied the freedom to think. Life’s not fair but we don’t have to just let it be unjust too. We say we’re all free but are we really? When there are so many who have to live in fear every day knowing th
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Opportunity: A Tribute

Opportunity By E. M. Areson In honor of Spirit and Opportunity, who turned 90 days into a lifetime. Thank you to all those who sent them were no human had gone before… well at least not yet. We may morn them but your work will live on every time their names are spoken. When Opportunity’s systems had rebooted it was not where it had been. It was in a sterile environment of engineering equipment. Opportunity’s last outgoing signal was reloaded into its memory. ‘My battery is low, and it's getting dark.’ “Finally awake I see.” The human walked into the room. Opportunity had not seen a human in a very long time. “We were hoping to get you back. You saw so much back in the old days. When we still were stuck on Earth. You know what this place was once like don’t you Oppy? And I’m going to find out with your help.” The human smiled and put a hand on Opportunity's wheel. “Your going to teach us so much. Aren’t you? And when we’re all done with that, it seems only fair
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Who needs Charming?

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Who needs Charming? By E. M. Areson I rolled my shoulders. The muscles were stiff, but not so stiff that I’d let it get in my way. I turned my neck this way and that to stretch it out. Armor was very ridged, even for a woman. My frame had been smaller than the suit was made for when I first donned my guise, but now I was brouder with muscles under my no longer snow-white skin. My eyes once a light purple turned blue then green once no longer around so much flambount magic. My fair hair turned dark without the magic powders my mother had made me use. I loved my mother, but she doesn’t understand. I don’t want to be rescued.   My iron horse, Blossom once and now Charcol, was resting his mechanical body and eating grass. Well, he’s not really eating but he is fueling his enternan engen with the grass so it is eating in a way. It’s a sturdy mech, and its tarnished silver looks enchanting. I smiled a bitter smile, he wasn’t a princess’s iron horse anymore. Just like I wasn't
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A Tribute to Stan Lee

Tribute to Stan Lee A Great Storyteller May your stories never die. We all long to be remembered. We all want to be the hero standing in the sunlight cape flighting in the breeze, beloved by all. We all want to be the one people remember. We all, at least as authors, want to be remembered beyond ourselves. We want the worlds we make to be loved and remembered long after we are gone. Now, humanity has lost one of the greats. He will be remembered. He was a hero standing the sunlight ushering in a new age of storytelling traditions. He was beloved by all of us. He will be remembered. His characters, nay, the children of his mind will be remembered. His worlds will be loved and remembered, long after this generation and the next and the one after that have faded to dust. “Faith is my sword. Truth my shield. Knowledge my armor.” Dr. Strange. “It’s not enough to be against something. You have to be for something better.” Tony Stark. “You have my respect. I hope the
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I'm Writing A Play!

I'm Writing A Play! Dear Blog Readers;            So, for anyone who reads my blog reguarly, my writing lately has been a little spiratic. Don't worry though, I still have plenty of stories to tell. In the whole, three seconds of spare time I have in my life righ now I'm startting a new progect. I'm turning my story Raven, it's already on the blog, into a play. I don't know if I'll be able to get it produced or not but I'm trying something new anyway. Wish me luck! ...And also while you're at it you might want to wish for my sanity to stay in tact, that'd be nice... Oh well.  Sinceraly, E. M. Areson
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Library of Inspiration

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Library of Inspi ration By E. M. Areson Photo By Christophe Maertens When she saw the old farmhouse sitting next to the cornfield of ripe corn, on an early February morning she knew she’d found the place she was looking for. It was cold and the wind seemed to make it twenty degrees colder. The farmhouse was crisp white with a bright red roof and trim. It seemed to have several doors and all of them were painted a different color. The yard too, what little of it wasn’t part of the corn field, had green grass. Light came from many of the windows and a sign painted on the front read, in big letters, MAZE MOTEL, ROOMS ALWAYS AVAILABLE. She walked towards the blue door she guessed was the front door. It was closest to the road and looked friendlier than the other doors. She cupped her hands together and blew into them. Her jacket seemed to thin for this weather, and once again she wondered what she was doing. She tried to think of what the weather had been like when she’d left
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