Let’s get freaky!
Screen clipping taken: 4/14/2008, 11:20 AM
Below are 3 sets of words. Use all the words in each set to
write mini stories in 300 words or less:
SET 1: paper clips, principal, lunchbox, swing, girl with a pink ribbon
SET 2: biology, class card,
foreign student, leaf, blood
sample
SET 3: typewriter, filing cabinet, puncher, clerk, carbon paper, janitor
I apologize for the dismal poetry.
Once I dreamed that I was dead
Floating, face up down a river
I could smell the damp of the riverbed
and the soggy sweetness of flowers
drifting alongside me.
The sky was an ashen blue
sinking into grey blandness.
The murky water at my sides
a brackish green
and the flowers were drained of color.
Though the smell of the blooms
tickled across my face
on a breeze
I could not feel the cold
nor feel the wet.
I was cut off
removed
floating
alone
dead.
about Johnny Depp. No, no, no, no, not that kind of dream. He’s a bit too pretty for my taste. I was having a bad time in my life, nothing was going right. You ever had those kinda days? Weeks? Months? God, I had been having those kind of years. Anyway, I was trying to decide what to do with my life, to get it out of the very deep hole that it had crawled into. I tried all these things trying to get my life on track. I tried taking classes that I wasn’t very good at, hoping to be able to get a better job, to make more money, as if money in and of itself could magically fix all my problems. Didn’t work. Then I tried going out and partying with younger, single friends, just drinking all my cares away. Only thing was, the next day, the problems were still there and now I had a headache and nasty morning breath that lasted all day. And I was poorer from all the partying expenses. And it didn’t work, either. Tried yoga…the stretches felt good, but it was hard to remember all the poses and in which order….maybe there’s a yoga for dummies book somewhere. Tried eating healthier, only problem was, I was so busying worrying about my crappy life that I fell off the healthy food wagon. That night. Tried losing myself in books, movies; only problem was, when I was done with the book or movies, there was my sad, pathetic self waiting to still be fixed. That’s how I met Johnny, I guess. I had been watching the Pirate movies, and I decided that he wasn’t too bad an actor, so I watched a few more of his movies. Do you know, that guy makes some weird choices in movie roles. The Libertine was quite creepy, yet compelling in a way. Anyhow, somewhere in all that movie watching I had decided that I needed to improve myself by going through some drastic changes. The kind of changes just short of a sex change and shaving my head and painting myself blue, yet still drastic. So I’m sleeping, right? And in walks Johnny, and we’re in a kitchen and I’m sitting at a plain wooden table…the kind that sits in old farmhouse kitchens that have seen a million meals…and we’re talking about stuff, who knows what, there are other people there, I know them in my dream, but I can’t see their faces. And I ask Johnny for something, like please hand me ….whatever I asked for…and he says, “No.” And I ask again, and again he replies, “No.” And I ask him why he won’t give it to me, and…. here’s the deep part,… he says, “Because you don’t really want that or need it. What you really need is this.” And he hands me a glass of water that he filled from the kitchen tap. And, I swear, it’s like a billion watt light goes off in my head, and I think, of course, why didn’t I think of that before?! So, I wake up, and I remember the dream! Completely and fully! Like, that has never happened before for me. And I immediately write it down, somehow knowing that this is THE MOMENT, the one that has changed my life. So, I really gotta thank Johnny for all the great turns my life has taken since then. Life is fantastic, I’m happy and healthy, my outlook is completely different, my problems are small and pretty much non-existant and to think it wouldn’t have been if I didn’t take that glass of water from him. So, thank you, Johnny. I’ll see you in my dreams. And you could come as Jack Sparrow if you wanted to next time.
….tiny midgets. Yes tiny midgets (and I do mean tiny) crawling out of the electrical outlets. Straight out of the little slots like tiny little freakish soldiers. At first they didn’t do anything except fall straight to the floor. Some landing on their feet, some on their behinds, some on their sides or faces. Then, (if they weren’t the ones on their feet) they stood back up, at attention, and in line. There seemed to be hundreds of them but there were probably only fifty or so. Once they got themselves into line they all just kind of stood there.
In my dream, I got up from my couch and crossed over to them, then I squatted down real close to them to get a better look. They were all dressed in boots, jeans, and teeny tiny black baseball caps. The only difference was their shirts. Each one wore a different band t-shirt. From Wu Tang to the Pixies, the Stones to Megadeth so many bands on such tiny t-shirts. In hindsight, I’m not sure how I managed to read them or anything but in my mind I could see each little shirt clearly.
They stood there staring at me until finally I got bored and took a deep breath.
In…
and In….
and In…..
and Out.
Whooshhhhhhhh! They all toppled backwards like freakish little dominoes, arms pinwheeling as if they could catch themselves, only to smack their buddy behind them in the face, or to get hit themselves, and all to fall. Click, click, thud, bump into the floor. For a moment I was ashamed, these tiny figures were people too! Well, sorta. Right? Yet, the more I thought of it, the sillier it seemed, until I was rolling around on the floor laughing hysterically.
The scene grayed out for a moment. To come back with me pinned to the floor, not terribly unlike Ted Danson in Gulliver’s Travels. I wasn’t laughing anymore at that point, more confused than anything. How the hell did I get here and why me anyway? While I pondered that, one of the little things climbed up my arm, onto my chest, jumped to my chin and then stood on my nose. It was very hard to see it clearly, my eyes kept crossing until eventually, I closed one eye and peered at it from one eye only. This wasn’t much better but it worked. This little figure was wearing a Vanilla Ice shirt. I immediately started laughing again.
“What is so funny, you?” it asked in its tiny tinny creepy voice.
“You. (laughing) ohhh yo..yo….ya…you! You’re we- wah- wear- wearing avanillaiceeeeeeee (more laughing, trying to catch breath) shhhhhhirt. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh that’s so guhguhgoood. Everyone’s fa-favorite fla-fla-flavor.” The hysterical laugher continued until the midget started jumping up and down on my nose. “Ow! Cut that out damnit!” I shouted at the little parasite as I began jerking my head from side to side as best I could. When suddenly….
The biggest sneeze ever started to build in me. I could feel it tickling my nose even in my sleep. Creeping up and building momentum.
Ahhhhhhh….
Ah……………….
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……….
AH-CHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooo!
His little bitty ballcap shooting off quickly followed by the little Ice’d bastard himself going flying backwards, end over end, Vanilla Ice looking at me, then gone, looking at me then gone, about five 360s, before….
…
….
…..
I woke up.
The End….
(yes, it’s fiction)
259 “I Once Dreamed About…..”
(great fun at the party btw…i think…. haha… happy easter weekend)
Sheila looked into the mirror and adjusted her short, chin length hair. It fell back from her face in perfect waves, thanks to an easy maintain haircut. She smiled at her reflection and continued to fidget with her appearance, although it wasn’t needed. Everything about her was impeccable, from the perfectly ironed suit that she was wearing to her gleaming jewelry. One deep breath to calm her nerves and she headed downstairs to her kitchen.
The kitchen was Sheila’s haven, all of her tools were in perfect order and the kitchen’s layout was such that it was maximized for ease of use. The surfaces sparkled, thanks to an all natural detergent that she made herself once a month and used to wipe the kitchen down before bed. Coffee was already percolating on the stove, the coffee having been hand ground as she needed it on her mother’s hand turned coffee grinder as electric grinders could effect the taste of the coffee. The oven was preheating and the butcher block sat in wait for her, with her knives gleaming in the early morning sun against the blonde pine of the countertop. All in all, it was as her mentor and role model always said, “a good thing.”
She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and set to work. First she took a clean rag from the drawer by the sink and wet it, then turned to the meat on the butcher block. She hummed to herself as she drew the rag from her husband’s forehead to his chin, starting at his head and working her way to his feet, cleaning his skin. Somewhere around the time she got to his torso, he woke up and began to struggle against the ties that held him down to the butcher block.
“If I told you once, Nathan, I told you a hundred times or more– if I ever found out that you were cheating on me–” she paused to check the ties on his ankles, noting with a cool eye that her knots were definitely looking much better with practice. “Anyhow, I have the church chili cookoff coming up this weekend and I can’t very well have you showing up with that… tart you’ve been seeing for the last month or more.”
Nathan looked up at his wife in her flawless outfit, his eyes widening as she lifted his ankles and began to affix them to a foot long piece of PVC pipe. He thrashed madly against his bonds and screamed, his gag muffling the screams. It was useless.
She smiled beatifically down at him as she began talking aloud.
“The first step of butchery is to lift the carcass by its feet,” she began to tie a rope around the pipe and wind it over the huge pot hook above the butcher block. “This is extremely important as the second part is to bleed the carcass in a controlled manner.” A grunt of effort matched her movements as she began to back away from Nathan, tugging on the rope and lifting him into the air by his legs.
“Blood can be used for very many things, from cooking to fertilizer,” she slid a 12 quart soup pot under her husband’s head. “Using a larger pot than necessary helps contain the blood, and decreases the amount of cleanup needed afterwards.” With a steady hand and a cheery hum she took up her fillet knife and scored his neck deeply. His blood flowed in a rich river out of his neck and into the soup pot. Some blood spattered across the front of her blouse at first and she frowned for a moment before commenting, “hmm, which would be better? Cold water…” Tapping the bloody fillet knife to her lips she pondered how to best remove the stain and waited as the blood letting tapered off.
Sheila spent the remainder of the day butchering her husband. His head, feet, and hands went into a chicken wire box that she had built the previous weekend and buried in the compost heap, preventing wild animals from being able to carry them off. The skin she flayed and ground up into a fine meal, which she fed to the dogs. His organs were thrown into the compost heap and bones boiled along with the tougher cuts of meats along with a selection of organically grown vegetables from her garden, boiled down into a rich, glossy broth.
The rest of him was ground up with extra lard, spices, and a selection of herbs. 170lbs of human male reduced to roughly 35lbs of ground meat, and it was sitting in ten Tupperware containers stacked two tall in a row of five in the bottom of her fridge, waiting to be made into chili over the coming weekend.
With the kitchen gleaming from her nightly cleaning, Sheila stepped into the bathtub upstairs. A slick pool of lavender oil swirled about under the bubbles as she descended under the water and relaxed. The clothing she wore was soaking in cold water in her laundry room, the kitchen was clean and ready for the morning, and her refrigerator was stocked full of fresh meat. Even better, her husband– the lying cheating bastard– was now gone forever, without a trace of him to be left behind. It was a good thing.
February 26, 1977. We’ve only just begun. White lace and promises. Stars in our eyes, love in our hearts. The world was our oyster. I wasn’t even old enough to drink at my own reception, so when my dad and step-mom #1 got into a slightly drunken spat about the parents/bride/groom dance, I asked my brother to get me a drink from the bar. Never much of a heavy drinker anyway (see drunken sot at reception reference above), I didn’t know what to ask for. He brought me back a very stiff 7 and 7. Wow. On an empty stomach, whiskey, even one with a can of 7-up waved over it, can really knock you on your ass. But I remained a lady, always a bit of a stretch for me as I was raised with four brothers. I didn’t say, “Sit your ass down, bitch who screwed my father at the motel where my mother caught you, this ain’t about you”, even though I wanted to. No, I just sat there while my eldest sibling, my sister who married when I was 5, tried to mediate between two drunks intent on continuing their fight from the night before. At a wedding reception. My wedding reception. The one I hadn’t wanted because I feared this very thing. I had wanted to go to Vegas and find some little chapel; not the cheesy kind they are so well known for, but a little chapel looking thing, like a small church in the country somewhere. But that isn’t the good thing gone bad. Although it should have been the omen. On the honeymoon we drove through three blizzards on the way to the Denver. Funny thing, it hadn’t snowed all winter until then. That was probably an omen, too. I don’t know what to say about the car breaking down on the way back between Baker and Barstowe. That wasn’t good, either. No, the good thing gone bad was the good Christian family boy I married, in a church ceremony, in front of God and everybody, who promised to love and cherish me, the one who did meth for a year and a half before confessing it to me “after he quit” because he felt I had the right to know. He had wanted a stay at home wife, I only had a part-time job, the kids were small, I was pissed, but he begged me to forgive him and let him prove himself to me. OK. Turn the other cheek. Forgive and forget. Until he starts drinking. And Smoking pot. Gets a 502. Then get a fucking job, get two of them, build a life for you and the kids, tell him he is running out of time to get himself together. Watch him party with “friends” who understand him better than his wife or kids. Watch the other woman pull him away, let him go. Fuck him. And her, too. Get a life, work out your depression, get a divorce, watch your father die, lose your second job, all within 6 months. Gets another 502. I go to college, have a fantastic relationship with the now grown kids, and make new friends. Think about dating again. He is sorry, still professing love…don’t want any of that. Tainted love. Gone bad. His loss.
(in my defense my first, though wrong prompt/writing deal was wayyy better–oh and I apologize for the length)
I am so hungry. It’s quite sad really. I just can’t bring myself to eat anything today. It’s depression. You see, this terrible thing happened. A week or so ago I found myself at the Farmer’s Market. They have delicious fresh produce there, some of the best around. As I walked around, looking at all that shining or leafy fresh goodness, I couldn’t resist picking out a thing or two.
I had walked along, sniffing this, thumping that, squeezing here and there. I was having quite a grand time if I must say so myself. My senses were in hyperdrive, my eyes tingly, my mouth watering, my fingers twitching with sensory overload.
After about an hour of wandering around having a sumptuous overload, I found myself back at my car with three bags of fresh produce and almost thirty dollars less in my pocket. The sun beat down on my face, warming me inside and out. I had throughly enjoyed my shopping experience.
When I reached home I had gingerly washed all my beauties and put them away. I kept out a nice big crimson colored apple. It was beautiful, it really was. The light coming in from my kitchen window positively made it shine in my palm. It was almost supernatural in it’s perfection, the light hitting it just so, begging for that first juicy bite to be taken. It’s skin was so red, it’s sweet protected inside nice and firm. One knew that biting into it would have that satisfying crack and crunch that you simply don’t have with any other fruit.
Gingerly I’d cradled my apple in my hand like it was delicate treasure as I carried it into my office. I set it next to my monitor where even there it seemed to glow with an unearthly cast. At that point, I wasn’t very hungry and so, not ready to eat it, I got down to work and my sweet lovely apple was soon forgotten.
As a day goes on, between editorials and phone calls, emails and answering machines, one gets busy as one is wont to do. Each thing always leads to another and before I knew it I was up and getting ready for a dinner business meeting that could not be missed. I would like to be able to say that my poor apple and my not eating it had weighed heavily on my mind and that I felt disappointment and having not enjoyed it, but that would be a lie. Abandoned is abandoned no matter how you cut it, or not, as the case may be.
The following morning, as I had prepared my first cup of caffeinated wonder to take with me into my office, I’d thought about my dazzling trip to the market and what a small joy it was. I found myself thinking I should make it a weekly event. I’d had a few things to work on that morning, before going into the office late to check a few things. Afterwards I went to a late lunch with a close friend and then home again to get ready for a cocktail party for a colleague who was retiring. In my office I’d cast a glance to my patiently waiting apple, now perhaps a bit less shiny, a little forlorn looking. Tomorrow, I had promised myself.
On the third day, perhaps my apple was looking a little less firm. I’m quite certain that there began to be spots that were a bit of a darker red than in other areas. Gently I’d picked it up. In my hand I could tell my apple was sad. It was losing it’s luster, it’s firmness for sure, and definitely, it’s juices were beginning to settle. Later, I’d promised. Hunkering down into a long bout of editing.
By the fourth day, my apple was seriously starting to suffer. The very dark spots had begun to creep even farther across the apples once beautiful surface. Guiltily I’d admired my apple, and beginning to feel sorry for it cradled it in my palm and carried it to the window sill. There I’d figured perhaps some of the shine might come back to it. It looked sad there, sitting on that sill, almost accusing really. In just a little bit, I swore.
On the fifth day, as I was making my cup of java, I made a point of bringing a nice sharp knife with me to my office. Surely with a nice glinting blade balanced on my keyboard top, (you know, above the F-keys?) I would eat my apple and give it the dignity it deserved. I’d had dreams the night before in which the background noise to every setting was the crisp crunchy sound of someone biting into an apple. I was not guilt free by any means. I’d crept into my office, refusing to look at the window sill, sure that if I ignored it just a little longer, I would have a nice healthy snack and not feel so bad until I did.
The sixth day, was bad. You see, I accidentally cut myself with the knife that was so stupidly and rather precariously balanced on the top of my keyboard. Turns out, that little shelf isn’t as handy as I had thought it was. As I’d run for the bathroom to clean my wound, I couldn’t help glancing at the apple and felt as if it was beginning to take revenge on me. On re-entry I had noticed the room had a rather pleasant apple fragrance and so thought perhaps my apple wasn’t so bad off after all.
The seventh day, I ran into my office, grabbed a file folder and ran out again. I could not face The Apple.
Today, the eighth day, I walked in late in the morning hungry and holding my head high. This apple would not get the best of me. After all, I genuinely wanted to eat it! I was very hungry! I was even intending to buy more apples at the Farmer’s Market when I went back. Apples are very nutritious you know. I strode right up to that apple, sitting on that windowsill, and I winced.
Long and hard I winced. Surely this was not my apple. I had noticed gradual changes but really this must be a mistake. This apple? This one on my window sill? It looked, well it looked old, sad, and perhaps a bit -dare I say- gross. It had several very dark spots on it’s once lustrous skin and those dark spots looked oddly flat as if they went against the natural contour that should have been there. The sweet apple smell that had once been pleasant now smelled slightly sour. I hesitated to touch it yet knew that I must. Carefully I reached my fingers out and closed my hand on the apple.
I had to fight the urge to draw my hand back, the apple felt so foreign in my palm. Inside a debate began, could I force myself to eat this apple anyway, perhaps throwing away the worst bits? I was very hungry, after all. I drew it up to my face and began to inspect it, startling when my pinky fingernail sank into one of the fleshy dark red spots. The sour sweet smell the apple had been gently been giving off burst into the room full force, causing me to gag. I peered at it again, it really was a sad little thing now, once it had been a fine example of natures miracles! Once it had been a gleaming shining example of what a delicious crispy apple should look like! Now, now it was a softening, funny colored, odious mess.
I found myself creeping towards my desk, slow baby steps as if the apple was going to call me on it at any moment, even as I cupped it in my hand. My eyes caught the glint of sunlight off the cool silver of the knife on my desk. I looked down at the apple once more and blanched. I simply couldn’t convince myself to eat the destroyed fruit. Guiltily I took five hurried steps towards the edge of my desk and lobbed the apple into the trash. It hit the bottom of the aluminum can with a resounding bang, causing my heart to jump. The echo in the air had barely faded when another sound shot into the room. The sharp report of the door slamming closed behind me as I beat a hasty retreat. Away from the apple, my guilt, and the knowledge that sometimes, good things go bad.
“List 15 Simple pleasures. Pick one and write about it.”
In no particular order:
You’re driving your car, thoughts focused on the traffic, the to-do-list of things waiting for you at home, when suddenly the intro to a song begins to creep into your consciousness. Its familiar melody tinkles past your ear drums, a tiny smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. Your hand reaches out, all thoughts have simply jumped out of your head, nothing matters more than turning the song up. When the instruments are crashing around you in a cacophony of sound and you’re grinning like an idiot, the singer’s voice blaring through the mediocre speakers, the bass enough to make your chest cavity vibrate. The first chorus run is over, a deep breath during the guitar solo. Your brain scattering and trying to catch up, all the memories cascading through your head of times when you heard this song and something “important” was going on. When somehow this tune inserted it’s self into your very personal history. Much in the way that you can’t watch a certain cartoon without thinking of a childhood snack, this song, these chords, these words, are buried in the very being of who you are. It’s been so long since you’ve heard the song that you’d nearly forgotten it all together. All the little memories that go with it you never would have remembered without that trigger. Sure, you remember the day that your first kiss happened– vaguely. But now! Now with the trigger of the music behind it, your memory comes so much clearer, how the kiss was chaste or sloppy, how you didn’t know what to do with your hands or what you did do with them. You heard it again when you accepted your first really “good” job, and it reminded you of that kiss and you decried your innocence. How it came on as you drove away from that treasured friend’s home after just attending their wake. Many times this song has crept up in your life. Here you are, belting it out again, shaking your ass in the driver’s seat, a stupid smile plastered on your face. Maybe this time, innocence isn’t decried, it’s mourned. Perhaps this time you remember a great accomplishment or a major failure, a heartbreak or a windfall. Regardless of what the song inspires, what memories come forth, the true sentiment, is that an unexpected hearing of a forgotten song, is one of life’s simplest pleasures, that can have a lasting effect.
I am as in love with my hot water bottle as I am with my couch. Where my couch has provided me with moral support in the aftermath of multiple illnesses and surgeries, depressions, and months without my husband, my hot water bottle is another constant source of pleasure and warmth. My first hot water bottle was purchased for me by my husband when we still lived in England, shortly after our daughter’s birth. It was standard sized and had a plush cover which looked like a stuffed fox. I would cuddle and hug the damned thing through migraine headaches and uterine cramps, and just snuggle it for warmth in the winter.
As the years went by, Hot Foxie began to show signs of wear and tear, and was ultimately replaced last year by Hot Sheepie, a smaller and more portable version of the same. Hot Sheepie is the perfect size for tucking under my hoddie for morning drives to freezing cold bus stops, stuffing into the small of my back on the couch at the end of a long day, and laying atop my head for headache relief.
Going through the motions of filling my hot water bottle with hot, hotter, hottest water, covering it in its lovely plush shell, and then snuggling down with it remains one of the best parts of negating pain (aside from the actual negation and or the wonderful cottony feeling that the really good drugs can offer). But it is the ceremony and machinations around the hot water bottle I like the best; having my husband put the kettle on for the water to heat, having him refill it in the morning without asking, or tucking a hot duckie in bed aside my daughter as she sleeps, recovering from a cold.