Kameko Murakami is creating Short stories, writings, and things with words!
2

patrons

$9
per Story
Once, when I was twenty, I fell asleep for five years in the back seat of an abandoned '47 Chevy, and spiders came out of the air vents and wrapped me inside a cocoon of spider silk. They’d never seen a human inside the car within their lifetimes and they had no idea what I was, but they all agreed that it was a rare and precious event and that I should be preserved like a work of art for future generations of spiders to look upon and rejoice in the majesty of the universe. The silk kept me protected from time and entropy, and when I woke and tore myself free, I was as young as I had been on the day I’d fallen asleep.

The spiders want you to support me.

This dress is made of butterflies.

They fly out of my closet by the hundreds, fluttering in seemingly random patterns around the bedroom before they begin to settle, one by one, onto my bare skin. I can feel their tiny feet sticking to me as they land and position themselves, a swallowtail here, a mourning cloak there, a monarch on my hip. Their proboscises reach out and taste me, countless little tongues caressing me. The dust from their wings brushes off onto me and makes me sparkle in the light coming in from the window.
I twirl in place like a princess at a ball, and the butterflies lift their wings to catch the air, raising me several inches from the floor, setting me down again when my dervish moment passes.

Weightlessness is intoxicating.

Satisfied, I hold my arms out from my sides and the butterflies launch off of me like a dust devil of blues and reds and blacks, spinning off on a thousand whispering wings, making one last pass through the bedroom before returning to their home in the closet. The ghost memory of their wings brushing like silk against my skin lingers for a few moments, leaving me quiet and pleased.

I’m so glad to see the dress still fits.


The butterflies want you to support me.

There is a tiger in my house, stalking through the halls. He is thick and terrible and the color of snow on ice. He smells of spice, hot spice that stings the eyes and burns the back of the throat. He crawled out of my bathtub two nights ago, dripping water all across the small black and white tiles which cover the floor. He has taken up residence in the darker corner of the hallway, below the picture of Katya and Jarek in Bulgaria. At night I can hear him licking his chops, waiting to make a meal of something.

Bez hasn’t seen him, but Juteau said she heard something snuffling around the crack of her bedroom door last night. She thought that she’d been dreaming, but I know that she was not.

The tiger is here for something.


The tiger wants you to support me. He may also want to eat me.

Each evening, I have to tell the tiger a story, and sing it to sleep with tales of lands across the sea, of doorways behind portraits, of treasures lost and found and lost again. He is fond of stories wherein people are eaten, obviously, but also enjoys fables about the wisdom of spectral ancestors, or old women who divine the future by reading the curls and spirals of clouds. His favorite stories are those which involve mathematics, because as everyone knows, tigers excel at the poetry of numbers.

The tiger sleeps much better than I do. It takes gallons of coffee to keep me awake, aware and functioning. To fall asleep before imagining a story to tell the tiger would be a dangerous thing indeed.

Caffeine is expensive.

The tiger wants you to help me buy coffee.

Won't you please help?

The tiger suggests I put a link to my website here, for your reading enjoyment: KamekoMurakami.com. He also thinks I should mention that you can find some of my previously published work at my author's page at Amazon.com, and that if you enjoy tales of dark fantasy or science fiction, stories with whispered voices from behind curtains or creatures under the bed, and sometimes a few occurrences of love overcoming dangerous odds, then I am your girl.

It's always a wise idea to pay attention to what the tiger has to say.

An important bit of information for you lovely people: you'll be looking at roughly a story every two months or so, as I'm working on a novel and various other web-only projects, so you're not going to be washed away in a flood of 1,000 word short shorts. Quality over quantity, friends.

Thanks for your attention. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a tiger to tame.

Rewards
Pledge $1 or more per Story
0 patrons
For the price of one slim dollar, you'll get a digital copy of the latest short story that bursts forth from out of my lovely little brain, delivered to the email of your choice! You don't even have to get up off your sofa or out of bed! Look at me enabling you to be extra lazy!
Pledge $2 or more per Story
0 patrons
Two bucks will score you both the short story and the extra laziness, as well as public outbursts of love from me on Twitter, Facebook, and other internet kinds of places, telling everyone in the world what a fantastic modern day Medici you are, giving support to the struggling artists of the world. Additionally, because you're so lovely, you get access to my Super Secret Patreon-Exclusive blog! Photos, ramblings, recipes, doodles, confessions, dark secrets, evil manifestos and stuff you can't find anywhere else! You know you want it!
Pledge $3 or more per Story
0 patrons
For three bones, you will receive the newest short story, the extra laziness, the public outbursts of affection, the access to the Super Secret Patreon-Exclusive blog PLUS delivery of the Kameko Loves Chachi storyletter. What's the Kameko Loves Chachi storyletter, you ask? It's an ongoing email-only story, helped shaped by audience input, fever dreams and random rolls of the dice, and filled to the brim with lunacy, robots, fencing and talking fruit (if, you know, the audience, dreams and dice call for that sort of thing) and I can neither confirm nor deny that it may sometimes be presented in a Choose Your Own Adventure format. If you're into the idea of seeing me spinning plates while juggling flaming sticks, then this level of support is for you!
Pledge $5 or more per Story
2 patrons
Five dollars is too much to pay for one story. I suggest you stick with the three dollar option.

Seriously. It's too much.

Okay, you've forced my hand. If you're insane enough to want to put up five bucks a story, then you'll get all the rewards that are listed above for the other, more mentally stable patrons. In addition, you'll get thanked in the author's page of the novel I'm currently plugging away on. Ah, but in addition to a lovely thank you from me, because I encourage laziness in my readers, I'll also mail to your own place of residence a nice physical copy of that novel, once it's polished, finished and printed. You'll have to exert a tiny bit of energy getting up off your sofa to collect your mail, unless you have a special deal worked out with your friendly neighborhood postal worker, but I can't do everything myself, you know.
Once, when I was twenty, I fell asleep for five years in the back seat of an abandoned '47 Chevy, and spiders came out of the air vents and wrapped me inside a cocoon of spider silk. They’d never seen a human inside the car within their lifetimes and they had no idea what I was, but they all agreed that it was a rare and precious event and that I should be preserved like a work of art for future generations of spiders to look upon and rejoice in the majesty of the universe. The silk kept me protected from time and entropy, and when I woke and tore myself free, I was as young as I had been on the day I’d fallen asleep.

The spiders want you to support me.

This dress is made of butterflies.

They fly out of my closet by the hundreds, fluttering in seemingly random patterns around the bedroom before they begin to settle, one by one, onto my bare skin. I can feel their tiny feet sticking to me as they land and position themselves, a swallowtail here, a mourning cloak there, a monarch on my hip. Their proboscises reach out and taste me, countless little tongues caressing me. The dust from their wings brushes off onto me and makes me sparkle in the light coming in from the window.
I twirl in place like a princess at a ball, and the butterflies lift their wings to catch the air, raising me several inches from the floor, setting me down again when my dervish moment passes.

Weightlessness is intoxicating.

Satisfied, I hold my arms out from my sides and the butterflies launch off of me like a dust devil of blues and reds and blacks, spinning off on a thousand whispering wings, making one last pass through the bedroom before returning to their home in the closet. The ghost memory of their wings brushing like silk against my skin lingers for a few moments, leaving me quiet and pleased.

I’m so glad to see the dress still fits.


The butterflies want you to support me.

There is a tiger in my house, stalking through the halls. He is thick and terrible and the color of snow on ice. He smells of spice, hot spice that stings the eyes and burns the back of the throat. He crawled out of my bathtub two nights ago, dripping water all across the small black and white tiles which cover the floor. He has taken up residence in the darker corner of the hallway, below the picture of Katya and Jarek in Bulgaria. At night I can hear him licking his chops, waiting to make a meal of something.

Bez hasn’t seen him, but Juteau said she heard something snuffling around the crack of her bedroom door last night. She thought that she’d been dreaming, but I know that she was not.

The tiger is here for something.


The tiger wants you to support me. He may also want to eat me.

Each evening, I have to tell the tiger a story, and sing it to sleep with tales of lands across the sea, of doorways behind portraits, of treasures lost and found and lost again. He is fond of stories wherein people are eaten, obviously, but also enjoys fables about the wisdom of spectral ancestors, or old women who divine the future by reading the curls and spirals of clouds. His favorite stories are those which involve mathematics, because as everyone knows, tigers excel at the poetry of numbers.

The tiger sleeps much better than I do. It takes gallons of coffee to keep me awake, aware and functioning. To fall asleep before imagining a story to tell the tiger would be a dangerous thing indeed.

Caffeine is expensive.

The tiger wants you to help me buy coffee.

Won't you please help?

The tiger suggests I put a link to my website here, for your reading enjoyment: KamekoMurakami.com. He also thinks I should mention that you can find some of my previously published work at my author's page at Amazon.com, and that if you enjoy tales of dark fantasy or science fiction, stories with whispered voices from behind curtains or creatures under the bed, and sometimes a few occurrences of love overcoming dangerous odds, then I am your girl.

It's always a wise idea to pay attention to what the tiger has to say.

An important bit of information for you lovely people: you'll be looking at roughly a story every two months or so, as I'm working on a novel and various other web-only projects, so you're not going to be washed away in a flood of 1,000 word short shorts. Quality over quantity, friends.

Thanks for your attention. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a tiger to tame.

Recent posts by Kameko Murakami

Rewards
Pledge $1 or more per Story
0 patrons
For the price of one slim dollar, you'll get a digital copy of the latest short story that bursts forth from out of my lovely little brain, delivered to the email of your choice! You don't even have to get up off your sofa or out of bed! Look at me enabling you to be extra lazy!
Pledge $2 or more per Story
0 patrons
Two bucks will score you both the short story and the extra laziness, as well as public outbursts of love from me on Twitter, Facebook, and other internet kinds of places, telling everyone in the world what a fantastic modern day Medici you are, giving support to the struggling artists of the world. Additionally, because you're so lovely, you get access to my Super Secret Patreon-Exclusive blog! Photos, ramblings, recipes, doodles, confessions, dark secrets, evil manifestos and stuff you can't find anywhere else! You know you want it!
Pledge $3 or more per Story
0 patrons
For three bones, you will receive the newest short story, the extra laziness, the public outbursts of affection, the access to the Super Secret Patreon-Exclusive blog PLUS delivery of the Kameko Loves Chachi storyletter. What's the Kameko Loves Chachi storyletter, you ask? It's an ongoing email-only story, helped shaped by audience input, fever dreams and random rolls of the dice, and filled to the brim with lunacy, robots, fencing and talking fruit (if, you know, the audience, dreams and dice call for that sort of thing) and I can neither confirm nor deny that it may sometimes be presented in a Choose Your Own Adventure format. If you're into the idea of seeing me spinning plates while juggling flaming sticks, then this level of support is for you!
Pledge $5 or more per Story
2 patrons
Five dollars is too much to pay for one story. I suggest you stick with the three dollar option.

Seriously. It's too much.

Okay, you've forced my hand. If you're insane enough to want to put up five bucks a story, then you'll get all the rewards that are listed above for the other, more mentally stable patrons. In addition, you'll get thanked in the author's page of the novel I'm currently plugging away on. Ah, but in addition to a lovely thank you from me, because I encourage laziness in my readers, I'll also mail to your own place of residence a nice physical copy of that novel, once it's polished, finished and printed. You'll have to exert a tiny bit of energy getting up off your sofa to collect your mail, unless you have a special deal worked out with your friendly neighborhood postal worker, but I can't do everything myself, you know.