The New Covers



The new covers are completed. It will be a few days before all of these titles are once again available. I am still editing some of the stories in “GRAIN.” “The Slick Furies” is at the beginnings of an overhaul, and I’ve no idea when those edits will be completed. I’ve come down with a cold, am tired, and finishing the last two covers, for “Thelxiepeia” and “Red Line Wine,” brought me to tears. The original covers never met my expectations. I resolved myself to the thinking that it is the words that matter, and it is, but of course, honestly, I wanted the covers to look better. They were as good as the tools available to me, that I knew of, and what I had time for. I shall compare it to the early writers of hieroglyphics, to those crafting early cave drawings, discovering (creating) a paintbrush. The cover of “Thelxiepeia” took about four hours of meticulously layering elements, messing with filters, spacing, and colors. I have a copy of beautiful edition of “The Rubaiyat” by Omar Khayyam that I love the overall look of that served as the inspiration for the cover design of “Thelxiepeia.” I love beautiful, antique, books. I wanted the cover of “Thelxiepeia” to have a vintage feel. The cover of “Red Line Wine” is an old drawing I did when I finished writing that book in 1996. Obviously I’m not an artist, and yet the drawing, filled with so much symbolism from my youth, is a perfect cover for that book as it contains my beginnings as a writer. Really, I didn’t think it would work but sometimes things are just “right” and you know it. To be able to finally put “Red Line Wine” together this way, well, I’m still fighting the tears. It’s been a lot of years from those beginnings to now. I’m equally happy with the new back covers. My take away from this is don’t quit. I’ve done the best I could. I’ll keep doing the best I can at any given moment. I hope to keep learning, and to keep getting better at all this. I’m also inspired to get to work on the next book(s) and editing updates now knowing that I have these other creative tools available to me. Right now though, I think it’s time for some steaks, some movie watching, some tending to my aches. I can honestly say that I like these book covers that I’ve created, and  couple of them, I love.

Teri Skultety


The Zombies, She’s Not There

If you’re looking for me on facebook, I am not there.

I took my leave of it a couple of days ago. I will say this, it’s a kind of odd… feeling? I was a participant on facebook for seven years, that’s quite a chunk of time to be engaged in such timesuckage. I won’t discuss precisely what my habit was in terms of my social media usage, however, as with any habit, when you give it up “cold turkey” there’s something of an empty space where the habit was. There was a little bit of a feeling of free-falling for half a day, however, it passed quickly enough. Suffice it to say, it was the right decision for me. I do not regret deleting my facebook page. It is highly unlikely I will return to that particular social network. I will also say that if you use facebook and you are enjoying your use of it, well then good for you. I mean that sincerely. I figure we’re all finding our own way around in this here world, to each their own.

In other happenings, the editing/correcting of previous work continues. Let that be a lesson to me to proofread better. (It isn’t terribly exciting as a topic of conversation either but, there again, let that be a lesson to me to proofread better.) I’ve decided I will no longer publish poetry collections on Kindle. The formatting of poetry is different from novels/stories. I don’t like the way it looks on Kindle no matter how I’ve adjusted it. Editing poetry is particularly tedious as is. I gave it the old college try, as they say. I prefer to publish the poetry in paperback form. So shall it be. I will continue to publish my fiction, novels, novellas, stories, etc., in both paperback and on Kindle.

Something has changed. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I don’t know that I’d explain it if I could. I find myself wanting to say something about the things that make us happy, the ways in which we all find our ways of being in the world, but it seems to me in this moment, better not to break the spell of any such thing with too much deciphering. Perhaps that is some of it, that with eyes wide open, or “woke,” if you prefer, one realizes that awareness is a personal matter of which there may be no such thing as “fully aware” in that isn’t there always something somewhere one doesn’t know or isn’t aware of? Certainly. So it seems to the open eyes that the demystification of the world, is, in some regard, overrated. On the contrary, however, one may then engage in the making of at least marginally informed choices. One might make the comparison between drinking ( intoxicants) because one doesn’t know any better, and drinking because one does. ( I remain sober.) Or, if one were to wear “rose-colored glasses” as a matter of choice, rather than unaware oblivion, or naiveté, or frivolity. (Not that I just woke up, not hardly.) As I said, I can’t quite put my finger on it.

So pleased, excited, to have so many stories, books, to write, so much to do. On I go.


Real Myths

Real Myths.

Tall, dark, long and lean,
Arrows in the slipstream.
Super sonic, sub atomic,
Wet dream,
Cross that man and taste the mean.
Step outside,
You ain’t comin’ back in,
And you don’t mess around with Jim.

Sharp blade. Well-played.
The only reason that I stayed,
Until they rolled the credits.
Read between the edits.
Every kind of pie imagined,
Four and twenty birds gone in,
One Stark Raven came out again.
Black wings, red feathered underbelly,
And you don’t Mary Shelley.

Golden Goddess, record player,
Tried so hard but couldn’t slay her.
Pictogram and after math,
Meet you baby, after class.
Walking down the avenue,
I know who you wanna do,
Penthesilea, of Troy Donahue.
Dream with Scarlet,
Take the win,
And we never go hungry again.



This poem from 2012 is loaded with references to a Jim Croce song,  a nursery rhyme, the author of Frankenstein, a play on words and rhythm that is a reference to the movie “Grease” ( Troy Donahue, I know what you want to do), a reference to “Gone With the Wind.” I don’t always write poems like this, but when I do, I think they’re cool. Penthesilea is an Amazonian Queen.

I’m super busy at the moment, but I wanted to say this, as a writer, it is really important to know when to cut bait on something that your heart isn’t in, or that just isn’t going anywhere. I’ll have more to say about that at some point. ~ TS




You know what a woman wants? A badass son of a bitch who can make the trip and still treat her like the most precious being on the planet. A man who’s really a gentleman, even if sometimes she doesn’t act like much of a lady. She wants a proper rescue. She wants gallantry and chivalry and decency, chemistry and, understanding.

She wants a knowing look exchanged before you take her hand and jump together. She wants thunder storms and sunny weather. She wants you to remember her birthday with an obscure book mentioned once in passing. She wants you to give her a wild flower. She wants you to carry her if she cannot walk. She wants you to be there every time she falls and understand what it means every time she gets up. She wants you to grab hold of her hips, pull her up against you, look her in the eye and not lie, when you tell her she is everything. She wants a fortress in your arms. She wants a connection with you so strong that people take a step back when you exchange a glance, and gasp, when they see the two of you slow dancing together. She wants you to read her mind and respect her privacy, or at least, her illusion of it. She wants to be able to be quiet with you, and know, and believe. She wants fireworks. She wants sunsets and sunrises. She wants happy, naked, joyful dancing, and to feel like she is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. She wants you to push her on the swings and carry her into the waves and fall with her on the beach and kiss her until she can barely breathe, your hands moving over her rib cage, across her belly and down between her thighs. She wants to take your breath away with her smile. She wants you to notice the subtle change in her expression that escapes every other eye but tells you that she needs the reassuring squeeze of your hand, or that it’s time to leave the party. She wants to know that you know who she is so that when you touch her it becomes an expression of your appreciation of her. She wants you to make love to her. She wants you to fuck her. She wants your admiration and your awe. She wants you to look at her and say, “No one can hold a candle to that woman.”

She wants your praise, your encouragement, your faith and your belief, because if you believe in her, she can do great things. She wants you to know when she can’t make it on her own and she wants you to give her some help without making her feel like she’s a failure. She wants you to know how hard it is for her to ask for anything. She wants her name tattooed on your heart. When you say her name, she wants you to say it with a sense of possession and knowing and belonging. She wants you to put her first and she wants to never doubt it. She doesn’t want anyone else to ever doubt it either. She wants you to be able to fix the car, the sink, and hammer a nail straight like a real man, without complaint. She wants you to love her cooking and take her out to dinner. She wants you to be the one who measures up, never wants to let her down even if you sometimes do. She wants to inspire that want in you, because you inspire it in her.

She wants to be cherished. She wants a man who knows how fragile she is, and how strong. She wants a man who understands that “I love you” should never be used as a band-aid or an apology or an excuse or a manipulation or a last resort. She wants to know it her bones that your love for her is true. She wants you to forgive her. She wants you to be her salvation. She wants to be enough.

She wants something legendary, even if no one else ever knows the story.

From “Gold Mine”, now  available on Amazon!

Map Maker.

17th Century Map of the World


Map Maker

March 2009

East of Eden,

The Garden of Weedin’,

Planting my seeds of deeds undone’

By everyone,

I ever knew,

Except for you.

Except for you,

Who let the roses grow,

Who had no fear of snow,


The cold meant nothing to.

And in the moonlight

On a warm night

Though I couldn’t see clear,

I watched you disappear,

Around the corner

Into nowhere,



East of Angels,

West of Heaven

On the wings of a firebird,

Away into the red sky,

Standing there,

A haven?

Looking for a Raven?

I don’t know why or who,

Or which bits were true,

Only that this Phoenix flew,

And it does not matter now or how,

Nor does the chatter of flattery.


I may never understand,

North of Neverland,

But bats in the Belfry

Would think less of me,

And I would too,

If I didn’t do,

The right thing

By the spring

Of the babbling brook

Of that which I took

And life came through me to.

Shades of nice and easy,

Make me queasy,

Long and difficult

Was the result.


South of Nowhere,

The outer stratosphere

Where zombies

Compare hair and recipes,

In the deep freeze of suburbia,

I found my salvation,

In my own rhymes,

In my own time,

X-marks the spot,

This is everything I’ve got.

Buried treasure


My heart out of the well,

Broken with the spell,

Glued together with gossamer,

Leaking dreams of you

that never were.


Traveling on to be

Here now,

And contemplate a vow,

Made in secret to myself,

Not by hook or by crook

Or circle jerks in a quirk,

Still love finds a way to work,

Forgive and understand,

This isn’t what I planned,

Water gets in everywhere,

And no, it isn’t fair,

But maybe sweeter then by far,

Everywhere we are,

For having known we knew,

Another soul as true,

Remembering steadfast

The Garden Outcasts,


And grow stronger evermore,

Than any roses grew before.




From, Gold Mine