But still not, like, fiction writing.

// function to add/update reviews

function update_reviews($book_ID, $Review)
{
$query_review = “UPDATE books
SET Review = ‘$Review’, Status = ‘$Status’
WHERE book_ID = ‘$book_ID'”;
$result_review = mysql_query($query_review);
}

// create the query to add the review web address

$a = 1;
WHILE ($a <= $r) { $book_ID = $_POST['book_ID'.$a]; $Review = $_POST['Review'.$a]; $Status = $_POST['Status'.$a]; $Review_updated = update_reviews($book_ID, $Review, $Status); $a++; } $a = $a - 1;

Of course after two days of fighting with it, Michael fixed my concatenation: $book_ID = $_POST[‘book_ID’.$a];. I tried everything under the sun but that.

However, it all works now, which is all that’s important.

And of course this is all for the back end/management of my book database. You all don’t get to play around in the back end–no offense, but I don’t need anyone else adding or editing books.

Just not in English, not really.

Here:

<table border=”0″ padding=”5″>
<tr>
<td><strong>Book ID</strong></td>
<td><strong>Author</strong></td>
<td><strong>Title</strong></td>
<td><strong>Review</strong></td>
</tr>

<?php
// display results

$b = 1;
$r = 1;
WHILE ($row = mysql_fetch_assoc($result))
{
?>
<tr>
<td><input type=”text” name=”book_ID<?php echo “$r”; ?>” maxlength=”5″ size=”5″ value=”<?php echo ($row[‘book_ID’]); ?>” /></td>
<td><?php echo ($row[‘FirstName’]); ?> 
<?php echo ($row[‘LastName’]); ?>  </td>
<td><?php echo ($row[‘Title’]); ?> </td>
<td><input type=”text” name=”Review<?php echo “$r”; ?>” maxlength=”155″ size=”40″ value=”<?php echo ($row[‘Review’]); ?>” /></td>
</tr>
<?php
$r++;
}
?>
</table>

Is that a thing of beauty or what?

Even better, it works perfectly.

Now I just need to write the update queries for it.

The lock of hair lay in the precise center of floor.

Below the neat cut, a blue ribbon tied with a bow held the lock together; the remainder of the lock curled upon itself into a loose circle, the uncut end wisping out.

It was the only thing in the room.

The wooden floors were bare. Even the dust had been swept up and taken away.

He knelt down on the floor and stared at the curl–the only thing remaining of their years together. But as soon as he reached out to touch the ribbon, it all disappeared in a puff of smoke.

The name was nice for a short story, but not really appropriate now that the tale has evolved. Need to do something about that.

Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open Part I
Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open Part II
Don’t Yawn with Your Mouth Open Part III
(more…)

This is MWT’s fault.

————–

Everyone said Southern California was the perfect vacation spot. “Get away from dreary Scotland!” they said. “A change will do you good!” they said.

Bah humbug. She should have stayed home.

Sure it was sunny–the weather had been beautiful the entire time–but she wasn’t used to the sun, and got a terrible sunburn.

And then there was the traffic–she’d never seen so much traffic! She didn’t realize what a backwater her home was until she reached California. Night and day there were people everywhere!

She’d thought a change of scenery would be nice, but didn’t realize the scenery would be so completely full of people.

She knew it was provincial, but she started wishing she was home almost as soon as she arrived. Sure, there were amazing new species of fish–she’d never seen anything like some of these species, but that hardly made up for all the other hassles. The food and water weren’t what she was used to, there was more sun than she was used to, and the people…

She was going to kill the dolphins when she got home. Even if suggesting this vacation wasn’t a dirty trick, it was still a pretty horrible experience: How are you supposed to enjoy your vacation if you have to spend the entire time hiding from people that don’t believe you exist?

The locals told her she’d be fine–“those Californians are constantly drunk and stoned. No one will notice you, and if they do, they’ll just think you’re an hallucination. Besides, you don’t live here! Who cares if they see you?”

“Who cares my left flipper!” she’d told them. She had no desire to be caught and dissected.

“There are lots of environmental laws in California!” they told her. “You’ll be fine.”

She’d stared at them if they were barmy, and then asked pointed questions about the amount of pharmaceutical run-off in the water till they’d dropped the subject.

All in all, it was one of the worst vacations she’d ever taken. To hell with the economy. Next year she’d just have a staycation.

NOTE: When the story first started to evolve in my mind, the angels were sitting on clouds. But I wanted them to be further back, which is when the bit about the stars came to me. The title was the last thing I wrote.

———————

We humans see stars as things way up out in space, objects far far away from where we are.

But there’s another way of seeing the stars, a way that we yet lack the ability to see. If you could see the stars that way, they’d be more like nails in the sky from which you could hang things like swings if you wanted.

And if there were swings hanging from the stars, then there might be a being sitting in a swing.

Perhaps even two beings, swinging and having a conversation.

“I kinda miss the old days, back when we had fiery swords and such,” the first being said.

“You just liked the fact they all walked around naked,” the second being replied.

The first being shrugged, “That’s true as well. I sometimes wonder why we didn’t get gender. You look at the planet, and most everything down there has gender.”

“Bacteria don’t. Viruses don’t. Amoeba don’t”

“You’re not helping,” said the first being. “You’re just making my point. Only lower creatures got made without gender! What does that say about us?”

“Why do you insist they’re lower creatures?” the second being asked.

“Because they evolved first!” The first being was starting to get indignant. The swing started moving faster.

“But there are many more bacteria and amoeba and genderless creatures than there are gendered beings. Sexual breeding has advantages and disadvantages. We were made without gender, humans evolved with gender.”

“Even a plague of locusts has gender,” muttered the first being.

“The Maker doesn’t have gender,” pointed out the second being. “So we are more like the Maker in that way than the humans.”

“Yet the humans insist on giving the Maker a gender! And even worse, they insist that the Maker is male! Why would the creator of all things that gave birth to the world be male?” the first being shifted back to being indignant.

“Well, if the humans who call themselves Christian thought the Maker was female, that would make her a lesbian, right? Didn’t I read that the Christians had something against lesbians?”

“That’s ALSO stupid!,” the first being was starting to get irate. The swing started moving higher and faster. It was quite possible that if the first being continued to get upset, the swing would eventually rotate completely around the star. “Why would the Maker create a creature and not allow it to be itself?”

“No one ever claimed humans were smart,” said the second being. “Or even rational.”

“You can say THAT again!” said the first being.

“But then it’s not as if humans have the corner on irrationality.”

The first being looked at the second suspiciously, “what specifically are you thinking of?”

“Well, there’s the platypus.”

“Oh the platypus,” the first being said dismissively. “Why does everyone pick on the platypus?”

“What about the ostrich? Or the sea cucumber?”

“They’re different,” the first being said, “that’s not the same as irrational.”

“Dinosaurs.”

The first being stopped staring angrily into space and turned to look at the second. “Dinosaurs? How so?”

“You think it’s rational that dinosaurs were allowed to evolve to become masters of the Earth and were then completely wiped out?”

“Well…”

“It’s not like they did anything to deserve it,” the second being said.

“Well… If the dinosaurs had lived, the humans would never have evolved,”

“And that’s fair to the dinosaurs how?”

“Well…”

“My point is that the world isn’t rational. Isn’t very fair either. But on the bright side, we got free will.”

“True.”

“Thank you. Now stop swinging so fast, you’re making me sick.”

I have no idea where this is going. Thought I was done with it, until the first sentence hit me while I was showering.

Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open Part I
Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open Part II
(more…)

Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open, Part 1

Nothing extremely disturbing today. Thank goodness.
(more…)

This story is going behind the cut because it’s extremely disturbing.

(more…)

The kettle hung over the fire, close enough that the thick contents slowly boiled.

Blup. Blup. Blup.

It was actually a rather irritating noise, but not much to do about it if the contents were to be properly cooked.

Blup. Blup.

She sighed and stirred the contents. There’d be hell to pay if the whole mess burned.

Blup. Blup-up. Blup Blup.

In stories, when apprentices were left alone to tend a fire and the item over said fire, it was something interesting, like the salmon of wisdom or a love potion or something like that. So what did she get? A potion that was supposed to cure male baldness. Ugh.

She wasn’t even sure if the potion was to be drunk or applied topically. If it was the former, she was pretty sure that she’d suffer with baldness before downing this batch of putrid green vileness. I mean, who really used eye of a newt anymore? And she just knew that when they ran out, she’d be the one dredging the lake looking for replacements newts.

Did they even use any other part of the newt? Or just the eye. Seemed hardly fair to the newt to have to give up his life just so some fat old guy could get his hair back.

But wait, did newts regenerate? Maybe she’d have to pluck newt eyes from newt eye sockets and then throw the things back into the lake.

She shuddered at the thought of that. “‘Settle down and marry,’ they said. ‘Who wants to marry a working woman?’ they said. Why didn’t I listen to them?” she muttered.

But of course she knew precisely why she hadn’t, and as boring as stirring this damned potion was, it was far better than marrying young and growing old before her time. She was going to be an independent woman. A woman who depended upon no one except herself for her living. And if she had to live with some old hag to achieve that, so be it.

As if drawn by her thoughts, the old hag in question opened the door and came in.

Of course she wasn’t really old. Nor was she a hag. But Mary liked to pretend the witch was an old hag. Because it felt more traditional. I mean really, who expected a witch to be blonde and buxom and to have half the young men of the village following her around every time she went out the door.

Mary had a sneaking suspicion that a portion of the baby-not they made was being used by her mistress rather than being sold.

“How are we doing today?” Even her voice was chipper.

“Fine Mistress Jones,” Mary replied, staring intently into the pot.

“Oh come now, how many times do I have to tell you, call me Carol!”

“But it just seems wrong!” cried Mary.

“Why?” said Carol. “You’re not much younger than my sister. And truly, ‘Mistress’ is just so last century!” She laughed brightly as she took off her cloak and hung it on an empty peg by the door. “I think you’ve spent entirely too much time sitting over the fire inhaling Mr. Rozinski’s hair tonic. Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air, and then we’ll start on dinner.”

“Yes Carol,” said Mary. She stood up, then walked over to the door to put on her shoes. Carol insisted they not wear shoes in the house. When Mary asked to be her apprentice she was expecting strangeness, but not this kind of strangeness.

“Don’t forget your bonnet,” said Carol. “The sun’s no good for your skin!”

And with that Mary closed the door on the sunny yellow cabin, took a deep breath of fresh air, and decided that maybe you didn’t have to be all ugly and dress in black to be a witch, but she was damned if she was going to dress in pink like Carol.

The knife clattered to the floor. His hands, numb with cold and slick with blood, couldn’t hold it any longer.

“Now you’ve done it,” said the damned voice in the back of his head. “This will be it for you for sure.”

He quickly stopped down, grabbed the knife, and surreptitiously wiped the blade on his bloody pants. He held the knife up and stared at his hands. They told him to buy gloves, but he had forgotten or maybe ignored them, sure he could handle it.

He was wrong and desperately wished for gloves, but it was too late.

He stared at the body before him, hanging from a chain and draining of blood. Blood pooling on the floor. A lake of blood and he was standing right in the middle of it.

What made him think he could do this? It wasn’t that he was squeamish–not really. It’s just that he never thought about how cold it would be. Or how much blood there would be.

“HEY! What the hell are you doing?” The angry voice broke into his reverie, and startled him into dropping the knife again.

He looked down at the knife lying in the pool of blood then turned on his heel and ran for the door, slipping in pools of blood, but managing somehow not to fall.

And that was David’s first and last day working at the slaughterhouse.