Friday, June 30, 2006

It's Friday Now!

Frosty and iced glass of Bloody Mary in hand, I give you this week's attempt at 55 Flash Fiction.

Fishermen caught the killer sturgeon that haunted and hunted the local river. After terrorizing the neighborhood this past week, the fish finally landed under the care of the local medicine man. Assistant by his side, the doctor worked his magic. He had long maintaned that accupressure would turn any wild beast into a sleeping giant.

Like an ostrich, John had to hide from his recent office faux pas. Sharon tried to tell him that using the last cup from the water cooler just before the boss wanted a drink was not the worst mistake he could make, but she couldn’t convince him to take his head out of his ass.

Ron and John loved to play practical jokes. Last week, John had told Ron that he slept with Ron’s wife. Ron found this particularly funny as he had never been married before. To pay him back, Ron decided to scare John a bit on their first, and last, day on the job as bomb defusers. (Picture 1) (Picture 2) (Picture 3)

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

It’s Already Wednesday, But Not Yet Friday.

I went out into public at lunch time today. I hate the Pub-lick. The public should be quarantined from me. It really is for their own good. I am not fit for social interaction.

I woke up at three in the morning feeling nauseous. My innards rumbled and gurgled and erupted in assorted ways keeping me awake until the alarm jangled my nerves. Rain poured from the heavens so I couldn’t take my morning constitutional. My head ached. I did manage a shower, which my co-workers will appreciate, but the effort to please them, drained me.

As soon as I walked through the office door, people started complaining about each other. They think because I don’t say anything I’m a good listener. They don’t know I go on mini-vacations when they speak to me. I allow my primitive brain to protect me from danger by waking me up when a response is needed.

None of the timecards were ready for payroll. I searched around the office, gathering them up so I wouldn’t have heart failure as the afternoon’s deadline approached. And I still felt like crap. My gills cringed like I ate a lemon. I shook with the chills. My dizziness had nothing to do with my hair color. My eyes crossed periodically as they do when I’m over tired.

So what do I do to make my misery complete? I went to the mall on my lunch break looking for a cake pan in the shape of a man. Well, do ya think there is any such thing? No. Now, I’m really cranky. I pulled out of the parking lot to go back to the office and I got cut off by this little chippy in a blue sports car that sounded like my lawn mower. I don’t drive a big fancy car. I have a little ole’ Cavalier, but it’s a five speed and I know how to use it. I can’t be beat from a dead stop up to about fifty. I kept up with her just enough so that she had to move into the lane to my left and then she got stuck behind another car at the red light and I turned into a disgusting wacko driver. I pulled along side her at the light and pointed at her and laughed. My only excuse is that I was wearing my sign that said, “Insane Bitch, Keep Away.”

Go Vote

Sar at Belle of the Brawl has a caption contest every week. My caption is one of the finalists. Please go vote for me. Thanks, bye.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Death Episcopal Food

Jason, an Episcopal priest from New Jersey, sat in the front pew of his church. His faith tottered on the brink of death. He reread the mandate from the church’s General Convention that will bless same sex marriages and that will ordain a non-celibate priest as a bishop. He agonized over these requirements. He prayed long and hard for guidance in these matters. He found them to be heretical. He tried to get them changed, but failed. He could no longer bear these radical changes in the church.

How could he continue to guide his parish in faith when he so disagreed with his superiors? His bishops made it impossible to maintain his vow of obedience.

Tonight, over dinner, he would tell his wife and children, that he would leave the Episcopal faith and join the Roman Catholic Church. He knew it might ruin the excellent food his wife cooked. Perhaps he would wait until everyone finished their dessert. They would be shocked at his decision, but they would follow him without complaint. They always did what he told them.

He would apply for ordination under the Catholic Church’s 1980 Pastoral Provision that would allow married Episcopal priests to become married Catholic priests. Thank goodness the Catholic Church made this change in their rules so he could follow his conscience. A slight chance existed that they would not accept his application, but he had a following, so he doubted they would deny him. He knew he would be an oddity in a celibate and unmarried priesthood, but everyone would adjust.

Monday, June 26, 2006

55 Flash Fiction

Logophile does this every Friday. I don’t know if I did it right, but I’ve been wanting to give it a try. And of course, I am right on time, as usual, not.

I think the object is to write exactly 55 words of fiction on the suggested topics. Here are my attempts.

* * *
Crawling into my nasal cavities, I claw and scratch to alleviate the constant itch and irritation brought on by tiny airborne life forms put on this earth to make my life a living hell. I find myself perched on the edge of my tear ducts, inducing floods of moisture in an effort to find relief.

* * *
The feathers caressed the grains of parched sand from the alabaster bones nestled in the quiet resting place of millennia. The eternal peace of the ancients surrounded our find, speaking of the care and sanctity given to these hallowed remains. We removed the gold lace shroud over the knuckles and revealed age old teeth marks.

* * *
Tinkling music worked its way down the street calling out to the children in a pied piper’s song of enchantment. They lined up on the curb, chirping with excitement, jostling each other in their eagerness for cool, creamy joy. Giving pleasure on a hot summer day to neighborhood tikes brought a smile to Nathan’s face.

Thursday, June 22, 2006


Today was a happy, happy, silly, silly day. I laughed, I giggled, I was very entertaining. I was an angel of mirth in the pissy-assed lives of the ones I love and care about. I don't know why, but I suspect it's because I Just Didn't Give A Shit.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Air Box Car

Before the sun broke the horizon, I rolled out of bed and forced myself to dress for school. I pulled on jeans and a shirt; rubber banded my hair into a ponytail and shuffled into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My eyes were closed through this entire process. After blindly putting away my toothbrush, I splashed cold water on my face, toweled off and looked through the bathroom door. The hallway transformed into a stone spiral staircase the type of which is found in European fortresses.

I poked my head into the stairwell. I looked up to see lit torches poked into sconces. I looked down to see water rising up the stairs, lapping and swirling its way closer to me. I felt the pressure of the water as I ran up step after step. The murky liquid lapped at my heels. I reached the parapet. The water was a mirror in the trap door reflecting my terror as I looked around for an escape route. My only source of freedom was to throw myself from the top of the tower.

I stepped into the open air and hurtled towards the ground. Birds passed by me. I passed through clouds. I tumbled head over heels closer to Mother Earth. My stomach fled my body through my mouth. I pointed my hands and head like an arrow towards terra firma and the nausea passed. This move slowed me down and I glided to the turf, swooped upright and touched feet to dry land. I paused for a moment getting my bearings.

I stood across from my school. People crowded the area. Parents dropped their children off after driving up through the parking lot to the front door. I stepped from the curb into the street to cross into school yard. A muscle car full of Mafia gangsters with sub machine guns headed in my direction. I ran from the coupe. The mechanical monster drove even faster towards me. I beat feet on the pavement, up the grass and into the parking lot weaving between cars. The gangster car followed close behind. I saw the men laughing at me as I struggled to evade them.

Just as the bumper of the car touched the heel of my left foot, I jumped into a cardboard box and flew off, magic carpet style. The riffraff shook their fists at me. I soared over the top of the auto, laughing at the men’s impotence.

I flew over the roof of the school, waved at all of the kids going into the building. I giggled out of pure joy and freedom.

I roller-coastered over the edge of a cliff. Gravity tugged at my navel. I glided to a gentle stop in a meadow freckled with daisies, cornflowers and milkweed. The sun caressed my cheeks as I lay down and took a nap.

Thursday, June 15, 2006


My ghost, Mr. G, wakes me up because he wants to help me. He is a Ghost Whisperer in reverse. I told him it would be a great help if I could sleep through the night undisturbed and he told me to quit whining.

He intends to help me with my weight problem, of all things. It is his plan to be my Invisible Friend, my Guardian Angel and the Keeper of My Kitchen. I can use all of the help I can get, regardless of how wacky it may seem.

The first thing he said I must do is “Man UP.” I posted the following two entries last December and promptly took them down before anyone but one person saw them. (You were very nice about it, too.)

Posted on December 12, 2005

I’ve been putting it off for a while now and I’m not sure I have the courage to do it, but what the hell. Today, I feel like jumping in. My original idea for this space was to talk about a problem I have not been able to solve.

Long pause before I begin typing again.

See, here’s the thing: I am fat, really fat. What is definitely defined as obese. I am 5’6” and I weigh 350 pounds. That’s like two linebackers. That’s three normal size people. That’s really big.

Why am I fat? Well, obviously, it’s because I eat too much. Simple, right? Just stop eating too much. Problem solved. It should be that simple.

I’m smart. I have above average intelligence. I’ve done all of the research. I know about vitamins and minerals, drink 8 glasses of water a day, exercise regularly, portion control, calories in, calories out. Simple.

I’m strong. I’ve survived this far, better than a lot of other people I know. I’ve made it through many situations that others have been crushed by and yet I keep going.

I’m blessed. I have both of my parents. I am married to a man who loves me. I have a healthy, happy daughter who made it to 19, without drugs, alcohol and pregnancy. I have a house, car, cell phone, laptop, yadda, yadda, yadda. I have my health, nothing really wrong with me that others my age don’t have worse.

So, I need to figure out why I continue to anesthetize myself with food. And that is what I am doing. I eat so much that I have no feelings at all. Happy, sad, mad, glad, they’re all the same to me. I try to get rid of them all.

OK, enough for now, before I explode out of my skin.

Posted on December 13, 2005
"Never apologize for showing feeling. When you do so, you apologize for truth." – Benjamin Disraeli
I think showing feelings or not are at the root of most addictions. I know for me growing up we were not to show excessive feelings. (Here’s my PC disclaimer: I’m sure my situation wasn’t much different than most peoples’. I’m just trying to figure out why the problem manifested the way it did in me and how to break the cycle. I know everyone did his or her best. I am not blaming anyone. I’m already apologizing for how I feel and I haven’t even said anything yet.}

My father was distant both physically and emotionally. He worked two and three jobs most of the time. We were close, once. I was his favorite as a small child. You can see it in the home movies and pictures and everyone said so. I remember at some point that he moved away from me. At a young age, I was jealous when he played with other children and he told me not to hang on him. While I was still small, I feel I disappointed him in some way and I disappointed him ever since. The situation that sums up my relationship with my father is illustrated by this story: The family was sitting around the table one Thanksgiving, when my brother was married to his first wife. She had done something to amuse my father and he said, “You always were my number one daughter.” No one else missed a beat. But I died a little.

Today’s edition, just to keep the parental blame even.

My mother gifted me with the pursuit of unattainable perfection. Regardless of the situation or accomplishment, the “but” reared its ugly head. As in, “Wow, you graduated in the top thirteen out of a thousand students, but even now you can’t keep you hair out of your face.” Her only physical sign of affection was the wooden spoon that made contact with my thigh when I annoyed her (which I really perfected.)

Me, Myself and I were a trio from early on, since we moved about every year and a half. I spent a lot of time with adults, quietly watching and listening, many times to things I should not have been privy to. I learned things the hard way. So around the age of ten, I began to insulate.

I’m going to go now, since I feel slightly disassociative and Mr. G says I should sooth myself with song. I don’t know what I’m saying. Bye.

J.K. Rowling at her website in the Extra Stuff section (hair brush) under Miscellaneous and then, For Girls Only, Probably… wrote a rant on our obsession with women’s appearance, thinness. As a woman who has always felt the pressure of looking for the perfect weight and as a mother of a daughter, I whole-heartedly agree with her. I applaud the use of her celebrity and influence over young people to address this issue and give her opinion.

Monday, June 12, 2006


Friday night, I saw a ghost, a real ghost, not one of those Hollywood vapory things that everyone thinks of as a ghost. This guy had presence, body and substance.

At two thirty in the morning, I awoke with a parched palate. I intended to tough it out, count myself back to sleep and ignore the urge to slake my thirst. I reasoned that if I got a drink now, in an hour I'd be awake to go wee-wee. I have a hard time sleeping through the night as it is, so annoyance at needing a drink had me even more awake. Dammit, I thought, I'll just get up, have a few sips of lemonade, pee now to make more room and maybe I'd be able to sleep the last two hours until the alarm would go off.

I flung the covers back and smacked my husband just out of principle (he snored away, so I took a cheap shot, ok.) I shuffled my way to the kitchen, guiding myself like a blind man, touching and feeling the walls on each side of me in the hall, cringing at the cold on my feet once I hit first the hardwood floor of the livingroom and then the ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor. I snapped my eyes shut when the glare of the refrigerator light blinded me. Peeking out of the corner of my right eye, I found the juice bottle, unscrewed the cap and started to drink directly from the bottle. Half way through my swallow, I stopped and not because I remember my mother's chastisements about drinking right from the jug. Someone was in the room with me.

At first, I just sensed the empty area around me not be empty anymore. It felt the way it feels when someone gets in your space. It seemed as if someone stepped into my comfort zone, that personal 12 inches around your body that houses your aura. Then, the quality of the air changed. In stories, they tell you the air becomes colder but in reality the opposite happens. The molecules bounced against one another and a warm mass took shape.

I said a silent, “Hello,” and high-tailed it back to bed, hiding my head under the blankies. For the rest of the night, I lay fitful, thinking about the seventy year old man who owned this house six years ago and died in my kitchen.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Clerks II

Help Serra at Whiplash Smile to win this contest. Make sure you let her know you played with her.

Clerks II - July 21, 2006

Friday, June 09, 2006


Here's a contest someone told me about.


Do to popular demand CARWA (Calgary Association of RWA) has extended the deadline for the 2006 "Writer's Voice" Contest for unpublished authors.

Fee: $10 members, $15 non-members
New Deadline: June 30, 2006

Enter a 2 page synopsis (unjudged) and the first chapter, or
prologue and first chapter (max 23 pages).

This is an email contest, no postage/mailing required!

First round judges: published, pro, experienced.
Final judges -
a.. Contemporary - Hilary Rubin, agent, Trident Media Group
b.. Romantic suspense - Jennifer Jackson, agent, Donald Maass Literary Agency
c.. Historical -Paige Wheeler, agent, Creative Media Agency
d.. Paranormal - Chris Keeslar, acquiring editor, Dorchester Publishing
e.. Erotica -Robin Miller, acquiring editor, Red Sage Publishing
f.. Inspirational -TBD

Categories: Contemporary, Romantic Suspense, Historical,

For Information, entry form, rules, and sample score sheet, visit or email

Thursday, June 08, 2006


It hurts to get the cold-shoulder. I lie awake at night, the glare of the digital alarm clock numbers mocking me in my misery and loneliness. I ponder my possible indiscretions, review my actions, and replay my words, all in an effort to see how I have offended. I wonder at my short comings. What did I do wrong? What did I say that would cause such obvious dismissal? Did I break some rule that remains a mystery to me? I admit that I occasionally put my foot in my mouth, but I don’t think I did this time.

I have never had to feel the sting of being ignored. I always receive some sort of response. I can deal with someone not liking me. I can handle unwanted attention. I can even bear people liking me on occasion. But why would someone give me the brush off?

I toy with the idea of outrageous behavior to garner recognition. Perhaps I should curse and stomp my feet. I could lift up my shirt like they do in the Girls Gone Wild videos (it might not be pretty, but I could not be discounted.)

I want to blurt aloud for all to hear that I have been slighted and I want to know why. I never thought that “comment moderation” would mean that my comments would not be published. What was wrong with my comments that you wouldn’t post them for others to see? But more importantly, why do I care that a complete stranger will not post my comments?

* * *

I know I shouldn’t be happy at someone’s death, but Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi [was] Killed in Air Raid and I am.

* * *

This woman is proof that you only need to be obnoxious and rude to be famous and make money. Her lack
of intelligence doesn’t prevent people from buying her books. Come on people, let’s not encourage the
idiots .

Wednesday, June 07, 2006


Here is a lil thing I copied from Guggenflugen but never got around to doing until reminded of it by Glaciermeow . I tried real hard not to think about my answers, you know, like a Freudian test.

I AM, I yelled.
I WANT everything.
I WISH I were independently wealthy.
I HATE phones.
I MISS my cat.
I FEAR loneliness (but not being alone.)
I HEAR the birds singing every morning.
I WONDER what life is like after death.
I REGRET not getting my art degree.
I AM NOT perfect.
I DANCE because it feels good.
I SING really loud in my car when I’m alone.
I CRY over stupid commercials.
I AM NOT ALWAYS pleasant.
I MAKE WITH MY HANDS all kinds of crafts.
I WRITE every day.
I CONFUSE people’s reactions to me.
I NEED a hug.
I SHOULD get back to work.
I START new projects every day.
I FINISH about 25% of them.

Speaking of psycho tests, take Dr. Phil's

It was fun and doesn’t take long. My score was 41.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Six Six Six

Somewhere in the world, the devil’s spawn took its first breath. So that you will all know him/her, a description follows:

Imagine the most beautiful person you can
who smiles whenever you are looking
tells you what you want to hear
promises you your heart’s desire
never actually delivers
and makes you always feel thirsty.

For fun 666 stuff, if you are not afraid.

By the way, I’m still here and so are you, but as expected, I have transitioned. Here’s to a brave new world.

While Timshel does not mean what Steinbeck said it does, “Thou Mayest” is my new mantra. I have a choice. Regardless of my genes, my upbringing, my past, the situation or circumstances, I always have a choice. The choices may not be the most ideal, but I always have a choice.

Today, I choose to say, “Happy Birthday, Antichrist.”

Monday, June 05, 2006

A Nice Day

They waited for lunch to be served.

“At least it’s not pouring.”

“Yes, we can run between the raindrops.” She looked at her mother’s opalescent skin and wished they could discuss something besides the weather. “And the gardens really need the rain. We’ve had so little so far this year.”

“We’ve gotten a lot. My yard is soaked.” Her mother grimaced and rubbed her side.

She tried not to sigh out loud.

During the meal, they focused on the food.

“The salad is quite good. It has chunks of roquford and walnuts. And the melon is tasty.” She kept a chipper tone in her voice.

“How is your ham wrap?”

She couldn’t answer. She had a mouthfull of food. Answering turned out to be unneccessary.

“They remind me of raw flour.” Her mother took a sip of lemonade. “I think tuna was a bad idea. I’ve felt nautious for three days now.”

After lunch, they drove along the river her mother had never seen the delapidated mansions in this area. Then, they drove from house to house, to visit the gardens. They only managed five of the twelve on the tour. Her mother felt dizzy.

“I like all of the green plants with the different colors splashed on them.” She pointed to a tumble of leaves with pink and burgandy along their inner spines.

“You should plant some flowers to spruce your garden up.”

“Flowers have to be replanted every year, don’t they? These spikey grasses wave in the breeze and come back.”

“Don’t be so lazy. You could do so much with the space around your house if you spent more time outside.”

“This used to be the ice house to the mansion with the roof tiles falling off.”

“If you would stop playing with your computer, you could get so much more done.”

“Look at the scar on that tree. It must be very old.”

After the leaving the garden tour, they went for a pedicure. She had never gotten one before.

Her mother treated with gift certificates.

She told her mother they could do a pedicure the first weekend of each month.

“Weekdays are better, but I guess you have to work.”

“It’s not too bust today an Saturdays are easier.”

“You should take better care of yourself. You are getting older, you know.”

“This whirl pool feels good on my feet.”

“Look at all of that dead skin. It’s important to take care of your feet at your age.”

She tried not to sigh out loud.

“We had such a lovely day. Thanks for taking me on the garden tour.”

“Yes, and thanks for the pedicure.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mother.”

She had avoided the usual arguments, but she felt sad and empty.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

It's Over

I grew these from seeds. Today I replanted them in their new homes. I planted Columbine, Butterfly Weed and Ornamental Poppy.
I must tell you that I am very clever. I used white plastic forks for labels. I wrote the names of the plants with Sharpie pens.
Here you can see Mr. and Mrs. Duck. They visit our pool. In the background you can see where I'm putting my little plants.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Warning - I'm Crazy

I alternated between self hate and universal hate all day long. Since I woke up and grudgingly rolled out of bed, the world hated me back.

I posted some comments this morning and the blogs' owners magically erased what I wrote. They hate me.

My dog wouldn’t go out side to pee the second I told him to go. He hates me.

I picked at a pimple on my chin and it bled. I hate me.

I fantasized about running my car into the asshole who thought about pulling out in front of me.

I cried about the deer carcass on the side of the road.

I cried about the dead orange cat.

The phone hurt my nerves every time it rang. No one shared good news.

An employee’s wife walked into my office without asking. I felt knives shoot from my eyes and embed in her chest, followed by my soul’s rapid trip to hell.

A co-worker took my frozen dinner out of the microwave before it finished cooking. I hate men. My lunch sucked.

My daughter’s laptop needed a $16 keyboard. Will the grinding responsibilities ever end? I can’t take the constant need.

My mother thinks her cousin’s new boyfriend sounds nice. Well, yippee, friggin’ doodle for her. Nobody loves me, but who gives a crap?

My boss can stick his job up his pant leg and spin. I’m running away to join the circus where freaks go unnoticed.

My husband joined Thirsty Thursday at his friend’s garage. They can all drown in a vat of hops for all I care.

I repeat over and over, “Tomorrow will be different,” as tears stream down my face and I pray I can get the car safely in the driveway.

Lightening flashes all around the house and rain pours down spurred on by gusts of wind. I feel better now. Please disregard the insane woman who borrowed my mind today.