...my heart it spoke and I wrote it down...

Tropical Storm Imelda winds down to her denouement, leaving us with one hell of a mess. State of your humble correspondent? Well, and grateful that we didn't catch the fourty plus inches of rain that appears to have come in south of Winnie. Or the thirty plus inches of rain they caught out toward Conroe and New Caney.

We got our share; about twelve to fifteen inches of rain where we are. So far, I think Beaumont seems to be having the worst time of it, in terms of houses flooded. Out toward Kingwood and Humble, they've had some houses hit. We just watched a piece on the local news about a family that just returned to their home three weeks ago, after being flooded in May.

Galveston is underwater, Lake Jackson and points south are catching the last remnants of the current go 'round. Things will heat up tomorrow, and then we'll have the thermal thundershower effect to pour a little salt on the wounds.

The way of it, September's our time here. When we get just the right kind of weakness and all the moisture in the Gulf surges to the beach. Imelda spun up and sucker punched us in record time.

And we all get to relearn the lessons. Don't get on the roads if you don't absolutely have to. That's a big one, but it's the hardest one to stick to.

I spent part of the afternoon wondering how I was going to get my little car to our daughter's school. The teenager's been driving our larger vehicle, the 4wd with a high center, while I've got my little runabout. She called, worried, not because the water was high enough to bother her or the vehicle she's driving, but because she was going to be leaving along with a bunch of other kids who've barely learned to drive. And the parking lot was ankle deep.

So I sat there, wondering whether I could make a Mini swim... and then I asked her just to wait a bit, let the parking lot clear. She did that and came through in flying colors. A small victory.

Stay safe out there, my friends, and let's get through the next few with a little smile and a lot of patience.

I'm going through and prepping my October slate, which you'll be seeing shortly (insert Cryptkeeper's giggle here) my fine, lovely readers.

And I realize that one of the real fine things, one of the good things, about short stories is that they cover the world. Worlds. A little of this, a little of that. Sure, these are all written and then chosen with a view toward the month's theme. Treachery most fowl, er, foul. (I don't have any ducks here, that I recall. Should I fix that? I might fix that, there's time yet.)

The storm, Imelda as it happened and I've been imagining closets full of shoes for some reason, at least for our yard has been a blessing of late season rain, little more. Other than not getting on the road to the day gig this morning, which I'm thankful I can do when I need to, there's been, knock on wood, little more than street flooding so far.

That could change. There are parts south of me, toward the coast, that have had close on twenty inches of rain over the past day or so. And there are parts east and north that look to be getting in line for another twenty inches or so of rain in the next twenty-four hours. It'll be a white-knuckle few days and that's no lie.

So I've a fair few stories in the pipeline and grass that's looking to turn into a monster for a while. All in all, not too bad.

a week slipt past me; this is that time of year, so I won't dwell on it.

The heat's dwelling enough as it is. A guest staying, making itself comfortable, that's the heat. I wouldn't mind necessarily. Except for the part where it looks like we're about to get one of those reminders that September's our worst month for storms. A low lingers south of my own self; the weather crews are whispering their warnings.

Rain's coming. Days of it, it's moving in off the gulf, and it's coming in that slow, driving way. The one that whispers of storms past. Harvey, Allison, the ones that came to stay and didn't mind sending lots of water in from the south.

I think now of October again. The first cold front. I wonder if this year is one where October needs a little help. A little ritual for crossing the void.

Dear reader... I may have a few stories that could help.

Not ghost stories this year. I look at what I've wrought, and what comes to mind here is... betrayal.

Strong word, that. One of the haunting ones, too. I see stories, new ones, of Gina's Hunters. Of the Queen of Night and Shadow. Of a grand battle that turns on plasma and blasters and the one person behind a console who'd never thought she would have a chance.

Of documents forged and set in a delicate place, only... well you'll have to wait for that one. Another, of an owner who's misplaced her sense of the other. One of professors and the studies they admit not.

There are others, too. A ghost story, just because. And, for a taste of something different, someone calling himself the Luck Man.

All in all, when it comes in, warm or cool, I will be ready to greet October this year. And maybe give that wonderful month a helping hand crossing the ways.

(In the meantime, check out my book links, over to the right, or ... ok so I don't have a link page yet for all of them. If you're on a tablet or phone or otherwise, try these links for my books: ny Open Wounds Series, Through the Foggy Dew, The Boyar's Curse, or Automorphs.

And I will make sure I get a complete page put together for those stories by the end of the month...)

I remember, as a kid, thinking there was something magic about the Bahamas. Something special.

Oh, not just about the usual stuff, the beaches and the beauty and the rest of it. All of that was part of Wild Kingdom, or Cousteau, as far as I could tell. Never been there. Just watched on t.v., heard stories.

Watched the way the storms, hurricanes, never quite had the impact they had everywhere else. I told myself it must be because of the construction. The cinderblock houses, everything built to handle the storms. The Bahamians know, they're ready.

And now Dorian is telling me: be careful of your myths, your stories. They don't hold up. Not when the storm comes. And stays. Takes four miles an hour and a perfect cut across the islands. Sand bars don't take anything from a storm. Not even a little bit.

I think I'll go look at this list and see which avenues I might be able to help the Bahamas, and the other areas in Dorian's path. Recovery's hard, yep. The things that matter tend to be difficult, I guess.