tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61016788629084408032024-02-19T00:53:20.961-06:00These are the words that are coming out of my head :: 30 Days of WriteLaurie is making me write. And write good.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-2141480050133422272013-01-07T22:48:00.000-06:002013-01-07T22:48:08.549-06:001/3 You Got Something on Your Chin<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She tried not to roll her eyes as she took his order.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Do you have fish tacos? You know, some pink tacos?” he
asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Trish was used to rude customers in the coffee shop, but
this guy and his buddies were among the worst. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Gimme a cheeseburger, babe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Certainly,” she replied with as sincere a smile as she
could muster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back in the kitchen, the cook prepped the burger: homemade bun,
juicy patty, fresh lettuce, and half a paper napkin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Here you go, hun” Trish said and smiled brightly as she
watched him take a huge bite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Revenge served warm.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Assignment: <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">A </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">drabble</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;"> is an extremely short work of fiction of exactly one hundred words in length,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">not necessarily including the title.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">The purpose of the drabble is brevity, testing the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space.</span></i></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-62249412430401439272013-01-02T23:59:00.000-06:002013-01-07T22:48:50.402-06:001/2 Little Olive June<br />
Little Olive June rode a seahorse to the moon<br />
On the windiest morning in May.<br />
She took some marmalade and a parasol for shade<br />
And soared like a kite into the fray.<br />
<br />
Little Olive June found herself marooned<br />
On a tiny comet high above the planet.<br />
The seahorse began to falter when he needed a drink of water<br />
So they rested on a rock made from granite.<br />
<br />
Little Olive June took a gold and black teaspoon<br />
And dipped it in the comet's shimmering pool.<br />
She slurped a tiny sip then put her left hand on her hip<br />
When she noticed the seahorse beginning to drool.<br />
<br />
Little Olive June, like a barkeep in a saloon<br />
Gave the seahorse his own little bowl.<br />
He gulped and he drank as he filled up his tank<br />
And was ready to continue their stroll.<br />
<br />
Little Olive June whistled a cheerful tune<br />
As she watched the sun set from space.<br />
She hugged the seahorse's neck and gave him a peck<br />
As the moon began to give chase.<br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Assignment: Write about a character (male or female) who ends up living in an unusual place, including the circumstances that led them there.</span></i><br />
<i style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Olive June" also happens to be the name of my 18 month old niece.</span></i>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-66749346751250877582013-01-01T23:24:00.002-06:002013-01-07T22:48:32.334-06:001/1 Last words of the first story<br />
<br />
She reluctantly slipped her hand into his and allowed him to pull her closer. Everything became heavier and heavier - her hands, her arms, her shoulders, each vertebrae in her neck and down her back- like she was moving through mud. The weight became too much and Leigh began to crumple in anguish.<br />
<br />
He did nothing to prevent her fall. He only bent forward, guiding her hand down to her face as she collapsed to the wood floor. <br />
<br />
He watched her with bemusement as she cried softly. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered to himself. "Eliot was right."<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1/1/13 Assignment: <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">Write the last paragraph of your novel or short story. If the last paragraph is only one sentence (very dramatic, I like), then include the paragraph before it, as well.</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">(or this is what happens when I've been watching too much Mad Men and previews for World War Z.)</span></span></i>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-21562491690384090002009-06-07T21:49:00.003-05:002009-06-07T21:57:29.035-05:00June 4:So, this was my life in Austin for the first year or so as I was commuting WEEKLY to Austin from Sacramento. After my first 2 weeks here, HBO couldn't entertain me and I began exploring the city. I'd usually go to dinner at a nicer restaurant and sat at the bar to talk with either the bar tender or other folks, who, like me, were alone but content to have some structured company.<br />Its always easy to meet people at dinner at the bar. If you don't like the conversation on the left, you can pick it up on the right. If you don't want to continue the conversation, eat your dessert somewhere else. The check provides the easy out.<br /><br />That's all I've got. You don't get the juicy details.<br /><br /><br />Assignment:<br />Your character is on a trip for work, and finds him/herself extremely bored, so he/she walks down to the hotel bar. After a few cocktails, they begin a conversation with a dashing stranger. What happens next?Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-74176141427900535862009-06-06T21:44:00.005-05:002009-06-07T21:49:14.072-05:00June 3: Suburbia suits meI take another breath and sink down lower into the bath tub. Wait- what did that lady call it? Oh right. It isn't a bath tub, its a <span style="font-style: italic;">garden </span>tub. Its so big that I can keep my feet in the water as my head goes under. And not only that, but I am all under at one time. Last time I took a bath, each time I wanted to put my head under I had to scootch my ass to the end of the tub, with my legs reaching up along the cold tiled wall in order to be able to lay my head back.<br /><br />My house, or what was my house, only had a shower. But it wasn't hooked up or anything so I usually showered at the Y. It was when I was on my way to the Y that I saw it. What they did to those men. What I told the jury they did to those men. And what they'll do to me.<br /><br />I push back up so I'm sitting in the tub and wipe my eyes. Yeah. This I could get used to. I've never lived in a place this nice. In fact, I've never lived anywhere that couldn't be hitched up to something and towed to another town before. When I walk on the floor, it feels solid. I'm not bumping into anyone when I fix a bowl of cereal. The house is made of brick and can't be blown down by any big bad wolf.<br /><br />Right?<br /><br />This town is alright except there's no Wal-Mart. I have to go about 15 miles to Fishkill for that and the money I have to pay for the cab ride makes it so I don't have any money for shopping. They've told me I have to get a job. So I guess I'll do that next. I can't really be a housewife when my husband's gone. But if I was going to be a housewife, this is the kind of house I'd want to live in. It's even got a clothes washer AND dryer IN the house! In my own house!<br /><br />But even with the garden tub and the laundry, there are reminders that even though the house is brick, my life is straw. Panic buttons in three rooms; FBI living in the guest room and kitty corner across the street. And guns. All the guns. I don't care about ever going back to Texas. There wasn't anything there for me anyway. Not anymore. I get to build a new life and if they never find me, I'll get to live it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Assignment: Congratulations. You just testified in court against the biggest crime family in all of Texas. Now, to keep your ass from being dead, the FBI is putting you and your family in the Witness Protection Program. Write about the first day of your new life as Chris Farmington in Poughkeepsie, NY. </span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-79935335025078140612009-06-02T23:38:00.006-05:002009-06-02T23:56:57.968-05:00June 2: off topic (gratuitous dog photo)<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My dog is a loud swallower. Not when he eats his food and not when lapping up water. Nope. Just randomly when he's sitting there waiting for me to prepare his dinner or after he looks up at me from a cozy little dognap. *GULP*</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />It's like he's either perpetually worried that I've caught him doing something or he's just a gulper.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I don't think that it's equivalent to a human mouth-breather or close-talker because its mildly endearing. Like when he scares himself awake with his own flatulence.</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I just haven't figured out the trigger.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Does he have an overactive salivary gland? Does he always think he's going on some harebrained adventure? Human gulpers show their true colors when the seat bar locks them into their roller coaster seat, or right before they step off the high dive. But canine gulpers?</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This shall require more research.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAtltl2gYhVggv_gQUyOP66hsRzzI-5LfbbkGPP_MImmFoiCgZfBmRXe_CnFuUwlf7nOcVo5kX6uO-r3kS1dKCC2p_cIRU1V9mEld1KX_HaXjDAUTCjZWshMJ7BFnTI1wJHtjLwFnHQ/s1600-h/J-Nov8a.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAtltl2gYhVggv_gQUyOP66hsRzzI-5LfbbkGPP_MImmFoiCgZfBmRXe_CnFuUwlf7nOcVo5kX6uO-r3kS1dKCC2p_cIRU1V9mEld1KX_HaXjDAUTCjZWshMJ7BFnTI1wJHtjLwFnHQ/s320/J-Nov8a.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342959907334284914" border="0" /></a>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-47855331286935134222009-06-01T20:57:00.002-05:002009-06-01T21:19:38.449-05:00June 1: The Writing Resumes<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I write because I think its what I'm supposed to do. </span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I write because I can't sleep. </span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I write because I think it will make someone fall in love with me. </span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I write because I want to try to disturb someone. </span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I write because I didn't like how something went down in reality so I rewrite it the way I wish it had gone.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I write because I witness something so amazing that I want to preserve it as best I can.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I mostly write creative non-fiction. Everything I write has some tie to an experience I've had, or want to have. I love to read literary fiction and natural history- and I find my writing reflects some of that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">My intention is to give you words everyday for 30 days. Sometimes it will be on topic, some won't. But I hope to make it a little interesting.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I think I need to start working on a short story for the Chronicle's contest in December- so perhaps I'll do some exploring, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Looing forward to reading what you all produce!</span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-78812728160741716232009-04-06T22:42:00.002-05:002009-04-06T22:44:44.613-05:00Its not my monthI haven't been able to write yet- and I'm not seeing any time in the future that I can be consistent for this month so.. I'm just going to bow out and join up another month.<br />I will, however, make an effort to read and comment on some of your all's entries.<br />Good luck everyone!<br />-CGCarolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-30303240062550478892009-04-02T00:07:00.003-05:002009-04-02T00:17:13.107-05:004/1 Foolish IntentionsIt's after midnight on Thursday morning and I just got back from the opening show of the Leonard Cohen concert. At 6am this morning (err, yesterday morning) I was on a bike trainer spinning my heinie off.<br />My intent is to write something daily. Just something. Sometimes I will post to my non-project blog and link it to this site. Sometimes I will follow the topic. sometimes I'll do this- just write for the sake of writing.<br />I already have two music reviews to complete by the weekend and some soul searching to do. In addition to that I have: a Steven Lynch show, a Jerry Seinfeld show, a visit from my parents, an Alamo Drafthouse quote along, a one hour bike ride, a thirty minute run, a dinner date with my training buddies, and 1.5 hours of air scenting training with Johnny.<br />And that's just the stuff I know about.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-29203610836970814472009-01-28T23:58:00.009-06:002009-02-28T15:15:36.553-06:001/21 a walk with shermanWhen I was somewhere around two and a half to three, I got to eat cake and ride in a police car all in the same day. I still consider those two activities key ingredients to a perfect evening- although its generally better when the cake follows the ride in the police car.<br /><br />I don't remember the looks on my parents faces nor do I remember feeling like it was a big deal. What I remember is sitting on some lady's house eating chocolate cake and refusing a napkin.<br />I remember seeing Sherman's leather leash hanging by the door. I think I even remember looking up out the glass window in the door- through each of the four squares and thinking to myself that today would be a wonderful day for a walk. A walk with Sherman.<br /><br />Sherman was the most perfect bulldog ever built. He was mostly white with some tan and black splotches placed randomly across his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">squatty</span> body. Although he would later become dangerously aggressive with people outside the family, on this day, he was still a gentle soul. Gentle enough to allow a two and half to three year old girl clip a leash to his collar and wait eagerly by the door for a walk around the block.<br /><br />I'm sure his dog tags jingled when I clipped him up. Then, without an indication to anyone else, we slipped out of the house and began our adventure. Now, I can't remember anything about the walk. My memory essentially goes from looking at the leash to eating cake- so I'll try to fill you in with information based on third party accounts.<br /><br />Apparently we made it pretty far. I don't know about miles- but definitely blocks.<br />And blocks my parents would assume would be too far away for my two and half to three year old legs to take me. Come to think of it, I don't know if they realized I was missing before the got the phone call or not. I can imaging Sherman doing most of the leading- but never pulling hard enough to pull the leash out of my little hands. He would trot along and stop to sniff at trees and bushes- with that characteristic bulldog snuffle.<br /><br />A neighbor lady saw us walking along and realized that although it was the early 1970's - long before kids were forced to play indoors for fear of pedophiles and shootings, two and a half to three year <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">olds</span> should probably not be walking large, albeit obedient, bulldogs unsupervised.<br />And again, because it was the early 1970's, there was nothing untoward about a perfect stranger inviting a child into her home for cake. In our family, we didn't start being quizzed on kidnapping scenarios until the early 80's.<br /><br />So, at some point she gets me in the house, slices what I remember to be a giant piece of moist chocolate cake and calls the police.<br />The police man, demonstrating an advanced level of detective work, simply looked at Sherman's dog tags, found a phone number and called my parents. Okay so it may have been a little more than that. I don't know if they actually had their number on the tag- or if they had to pull the information from the rabies vaccination tag and look something up. So I'll cut the friendly stranger some slack.<br /><br />Thus began the final part of my adventure- the ride home. I do remember pulling up to my parent's house in a car that was outfitted with lots more than the basic steering wheel and gear shifter. But I don't think they made me wear a seat belt. And they were probably smoking. Nah- I just made that part up.<br /><br />I also don't remember the actual reunion very well. But to close it up I'll say that I don't think I got into too much trouble. I'm sure they made sure to keep better tabs on both Sherman and me. For me, however, it was just the beginning of many unauthorized explorations- creek crossings, tree <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">climbings</span>, fence <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hoppings</span>. I didn't have Sherman there as either a rescuer or a co-conspirator for those adventures- but I'll always remember him as the catalyst.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Assignment Notes: In honor of what is arguably one of the best television shows ever made, write about a time you, or someone you love, was Lost.</span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-82718854357826455622009-01-28T23:12:00.003-06:002009-01-28T23:43:04.495-06:001/28 Billions!So I hit the uberjackpot. I have $819 billion dollars.<br /><br />1. Pay off my parents' house.- give them a few million to do with as they wish.<br />2. Buy a house for my sister- finance her film projects- help her start a production company(?)<br />3. Buy a house for me in Austin, Sea Ranch and Switzerland.- invest $100 million of it.<br />4. Set up a charitable giving foundation for the rest<br />5. Purchase land for an animal sanctuary in a fairly remote but temperate location.- Start building barns and structures for horses, mules, donkeys and dogs. And another house(s) for the humans who will staff the place.<br />6. Donate ~$50,000 to 100 public schools via a grant program<br />7. Hire a personal trainer- train for an Ironman<br />8. Make significant contributions to:<br />- Alzheimer's Research<br />- Breast Cancer Research<br />- Local animal rescue organizations<br />- Planned Parenthood<br />- help women in 3rd world countries get business loans<br />9. travel travel travel<br />- Costa Rica, Canada, Spain, England, Ireland, Australia, Germany, everywhere else.<br />10. Get a Creative Writing Degree.<br />11. Who knows.. I think at this point I haven't even hit $500 million yet...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Assignment Notes: You just got a $819 billion dollar bonus, because you are so awesome. Consider it your very own economic stimulus package. Go ape shit. What are you going to do with it? </span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-46463930659939829832009-01-15T22:35:00.004-06:002009-01-15T23:09:14.275-06:001/15 HaleyB<img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Carol/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Perennially goggled and painfully shy, the always candid HaleyB started life as most of us do with ten toes and ten fingers and soft wisps of baby hair on her head. Although nothing was wrong with her vision, HaleyB found protective eyewear oddly comforting during her early years. One day she came home from school early only to find her parents in mid-coitus with her mother's stilletoed limbs kicking wildly in the air. Mistaking the frantic lovemaking for an attack, little HaleyB ran to help her mother only to get kicked in the eyebrow by one of the flailing feet. The combination of both the impact of the kick and the visual of the beat-with-two-backs, HaleyB sought to protect herself in the way that made the most sense- goggles.<br />With her goggles securely attached to her face, HaleyB could break out of her self-conscious shell and participate in school yard games and classroom activities. Through her goggles, she observed everything. She took it all in- and she wrote it all down.<br />Gradually HaleyB began experimenting with goggles. Her everyday pair was a gift from her uncle- a ski instructor in Kirkwood, CA. Light but sturdy, she could clearly see the world around her with light sun protection- and no glare! A former lover, who didn't get it, offered her some basic swimming pool goggles. She graciously accepted the gift- but never slept with that person again.</span><br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Carol/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot-1.jpg" alt="" /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Assignment Notes:<br />OK, so I really want to keep up, to some degree, with some sort of collaborative writing. I find it fun.<br /><br />Today, pick someone in the blog group (look in the followers section) whom you know very little about. Based solely on their blogspot pic and the name of their blog (not their writing), write a one-paragraph bio of them.<br /></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-38092611666440606632009-01-13T01:10:00.001-06:002009-01-13T01:11:54.959-06:001/13 ExcusesI would write but I am hooked on watching Type O Negative videos online all night.<br />More to come later this week.<br /><br />Why is Pete Steele so goddamn sexy?Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-79091864316558425402009-01-05T22:42:00.005-06:002009-01-05T23:42:40.590-06:001/5 Dear Old Love<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">At least when I lied, it was to protect your feelings. So yeah, you have the worst tasting cum ever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Assignment Notes: </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">This blog called "Dear Old Love" is a really fun way to waste a few hours. Similar to postsecret- people mail in their notes anonymously to their exes. The blog owner comes up with the title.Some are sweet, some are sad and some are..vengeful.enjoy!</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-size:85%;" ><strong>Book Him</strong><br />via Dear Old Love on 1/4/09<br />I finally finished my novel. It’s nothing like the early drafts you read. The character based on you kills himself because he’s a jackass and everybody hates him. Especially me.</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:times new roman;" ><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Now that is a dish best served cold. Write a note to an ex. And don't be shy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >CG Notes: Okay okay- I was going to let this one stand on its own but just to make sure no one gets there feelings hurt, this was based more on a conversation than actual experience. I'm not exactly a sperm sommelier, but different factors contribute to a person's individual.. uh flavor.</span></span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-87347147382192415252009-01-04T23:22:00.011-06:002009-01-05T22:38:16.168-06:001/4 Hint: It's Not a dog<span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >It's fucking hot. I came in to 7-ll for a goddamn Slurpee and its hotter than the Heat Mizer's balls for fuck's sake. I just poured my Slurpee and its looking more like a slushy- which is not nearly as tasty nor re-fucking-freshing. If this is all syrup before I get to the cash register I'm going to pour half of it into the give-a-penny-take-a-penny cup and the other half into the bin of cheap lighters.<br /><br />Wait. That's chick's handbag just moved. Is she keeping her cockapoodle or chiuaua or some shitty dorkie in that bag? What a bitch! Its sweltering in here and that dog can't hardly breathe smothered in that black leather bag.<br /><br />I take a sip of my Slurpee and confirm it is not yet syrup. I am pleased. I contemplate the beef sticks and hear somebody's stomach gurgle. I know its not a fart. Anything that actually exited a person's body and made that beastly a noise would certainly emit a nostril singeing odor. And while I smell a slight sulfuric scent, I figure its just eggs. This place isn't exactly known for being hygenic. I mean, the same hotdogs have been on those rollers so long, I know them all by name. And I only come in here 3 times a month- after noodlin'.<br /><br />So this chick's bag moves again and I feel I have to say something. I tap her lightly on her shoulder and she turns towards me and looks through me. Not at me- completely through me. Its fucking weird.<br /><br />Hey- I tell her. Your dog probably can't breathe in there with it being so hot in here.<br />She looks down at the bag and slowly parts the top and son-of-a-whore that ungodly smell just bursts out of that thing.<br /><br />"Jesus fuck lady! What did you feed your goddamn dog? Its dying in there! Do you not fucking smell that shit?" I yell at her and squeeze my Slurpee cup so hard that brown and red Slurpee explodes out of my hands and all over the cigarettes and titty magazines. Not like they weren't sticky anyway.<br /><br />The deep gut sound rumbles within the bag and before I can cuss her out again, a black leg... no...no...no... that's not a leg- its a.. oh fuck me- that' s goddamn tentacle! It roils against the bag- straining to escape. The bitch's eyes never move. The bag glows like some twisted jack-o-lantern and something screeches- but it doesn't come from her bag. I mean, it does- but it sounds a mile away. which is about 180 degress from where I want to be right now.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >CG notes: I cannot get Green Day's "American Idiot" out of my head. Thanks, Laurie. In case it wasn't obvious- my idiom was "Hell in a handbasket."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Assignment Notes: Choose an American idiom and use its literal meaning as the basis for a story. </span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-36184574405212374922009-01-03T20:41:00.000-06:002009-01-04T22:59:01.458-06:001/3 Natural Disaster<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The dorm is locked by the time I arrive from Nat Sci II. With nowhere to go, I clutch my backpack and head to the west side field. The field overlooks Monterey bay and some of downtown Santa Cruz where dozens of pillars of smoke rise from the town. I can hear sirens as fire trucks and police cars rush to each damaged building. Or collapsed building. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Then I feel another one. An aftershock. It shakes so hard that I have to stop walking to keep my balance. There have been three good ones since the main earthquake and this makes four.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Around me people are sitting in small groups like refugees. Its a pleasant fall evening and there is a slight chill. The light is softened by all the dust. I can't see my friends.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A trio of guys I recognize but don't really know call me over. One of them says nothing but hands me a pipe and a lighter. "This should help" he says. I lit the bowl and inhaled. A smaller aftershock rolled under out feet and I blew out the smoke. I felt tingly.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"When will these stop?" I muttered.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The guy tucked my hair behind my right ear.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Not sure. That was a pretty big quake. It took out the Bay Bridge. And the 880 is toast."</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Yeah," added another guy in a plaid flannel. "San Francisco is burning."</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Ha ha, dude. You mean flaming. San Francisco is flaming!" the other guy chimed in.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"No, dipshit. It's on fire- like destruction and shit," plaid flannel replied.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"It's flaming..ha ha.. FLAY-ming!" We lost the third guy in a flurry of giggles. So I took his turn on the pipe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I spy my roommate and my neighbors in a cluster several feet away. I thank the guys for their hospitality, take one last draw and walk towards my friends. The first guy grabs my arm and gives me a long deep kiss. The mix of adrenaline and weed is intoxicating. I make a mental note to find him later.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Liz gives me a hug and David spreads a sleeping bag on the ground. A few of us sit down and look out over the city. You can hear people crying. Radios sounding alerts shouting out instructions. </span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br />Don't go into any buildings.<br />Don't drink any water.<br />Don't go surfing.<br />Stay off the phone lines unless you have an emergency.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And then we hear something else. Two violins. A very tall man and a petite woman, both in glasses, walking toward us all playing Pachelbel's Canon. Its a surreal scene,. The sunset is glittering. Dust particle from broken buildings causing the light to shift and bend- creating crimsons and golds and jewel worthy oranges. The jarring radio announcements. The lilting violins. So much beauty out of of so much confusion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">CG notes: On October 17th 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake destroyed most of the downtown Santa Cruz shops, nearly every chimney in town and, as you may remember, part of the 880 freeway. I was a student in my freshman year at UC Santa Cruz and was 10 miles from the epicenter of the 7.1 shaker. We were cleared to go back into our dorms around 10:30 that night. But the aftershocks didn't stop for months.<br />My dog also died that day in Sacramento.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Assignment Notes: Natural disasters are something that almost all of us will deal with in our lifetime. Earthquakes, hurricanes, fires, tornadoes, tsunamis. They are also great elements in literature, for if it there were no tornadoes, how would Dorothy have made it to Oz?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Today, write about a natural disaster. Either write about your experience with one, or write about a fictional event from a character's first person point of view. </span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-13888937523522096822009-01-02T18:03:00.002-06:002009-01-04T22:23:37.076-06:001/2 The OxAn ox is very simply a castrated bovine that has learned some tricks.<br /><br />In other words, he's the perennial nice guy.<br /><br />He's the guy who does all the heavy lifting without getting the credit he deserves. He's not all that bright. He's docile and does as he's told. He accepts the beatings without complaint. Steady and solid- he'll work for you until you say stop.<br /><br />He's the one a girl settles for because she can't tame the stallion she was promised.<br /><br />She'll sit in the wagon on an established trail with her faithful ox shouldering her baggage. From her seat she can see the horses galloping away in the fields, wandering where their whims take them. The ox will take her where she thinks she's supposed to be.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My notes: So its not exactly an ode. Sorry. I'm not a fan of what the ox represents.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> And I just found some of my super cheesy high school poetry. Can you tell?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Assignment Notes: 2009 is the Year of the Ox, a beast of burden that occupies very little space in our literary history. Babe the blue ox has pretty much had to hold it down in that world, so help keep him company by writing an ode to the ox. A poem is probably the most fun way to go, but feel free to write in any style you want. Read more about the year of the ox on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ox_%28zodiac%29">Wikipedia</a>. </span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-12732869827690185042009-01-01T23:44:00.004-06:002009-01-02T00:09:12.332-06:001/1 Fresh Start<span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">It's a new dawn</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's a new day</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's a new life</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For me</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And I'm feeling good</span><br />-Nina Simone</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The five words that will define my writing life for 2009 are:</span><br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">passionate</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">fearless</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">consistent</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">authentic</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">earnest</span></li></ul><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It should come as no surprise that these are also my intentions for myself overall for this year.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I feel as though I've become a wallflower in recent months- slowly pulling away from friends and abusing my introspective powers. Life is not as interesting when you live it alone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Under certain circumstances, I have a tendency to withdraw and self medicate with TV, alcohol and food (and recently, Facebook). I become paralyzed. Writing forces me to experience each emotion and even though it gives me more control - it also leaves me vulnerable. And I hate that. Hate it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I guess the good part of the paralysis is that I'm so mentally confined that I don't make bad decisions. But frankly, I don't make any decisions at all. Things just roll past me and I spend all day in my own head. Completely oblivious of the days passing me by- and the lives and events of friends who could benefit from my full or even partial attention.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So my goal for the first few months of 2009 is to become re-engaged with the world around me. Return to living in the moment and making an effort to support those I care about.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My writing will hopefully reflect these changes and, dear reader- be prepared. I have no idea where my thoughts will wander. But I promise to push some boundaries.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Assignment notes: It’s the first of the year and you have a blank canvas in front of you. On that glaringly white piece of paper, set your intention for the year. Fill that page with five words that reflect your goals for your life as a writer. Expand upon them if you want, or let them be powerful enough to speak for themselves. </span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-83068558930478177552008-11-22T21:13:00.008-06:002008-11-23T23:05:25.254-06:00November 22 Crazy Lady<span style="font-family: verdana;">Some people take psychology classes because they are generally interested in human behavior and brain function. Most people take psychology classes because they think that they can figure out their own issues with the aid of some generalized classes instead of sucking it up and seeing a professional. Of course, this begs the question, how much should we trust people who have moved forward and attained an advanced psychology degree. How fucked up are they? Well, I have answer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The field of psychology has several touch points with the computer field. The primary one is "usability" which is essentially the study of making anything , in this case software, intuitive and easy to use. The main focus of software usability involves cognitive psychology- how we think; learning and memory.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I first began my computer career, I worked for a company that grew from about 7 of us in our first year to over 100 by our fourth. In that fourth year, we added a woman who had a Master's in Cognitive Psychology and was to become our usability specialist. And she was one fucked up twat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'll call her Mavis. The reason its so easy to come up with a biography for this woman is because within a week of knowing her, she had shared her entire life with most of the staff. Not that anyone had asked. It goes a little something like this:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Before age 11: molested</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">somewhere around age 16: molested</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">somewhere around age 16.5: graduated high school</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">somewhere around age 18: raped</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">somewhere around age 19: graduated from college, because she was a "child prodigy"</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">somewhere around age 21: raped</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">somewhere around age 24: major head trauma in a car wreck (and no, I'm not interested in seeing the scar).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">So we meet Mavis around age thirty five or so. Mavis can't be in a room with fluorescent lights because they interfere with her thinking. I'll give her that. I don't care for them myself- but she is so sensitive to them they cause headaches. Its the hertz that affect her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mavis constantly wears this loosely woven black poncho. Doesn't matter the outfit- the black poncho is a wardrobe staple. Okay- the office is chilly. Sometimes you don't plan your outfit well and need to wear something to keep the chill away. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mavis is always right. A trait I personally can't stand (maybe because I might identify with it...sometimes?). But she gets argumentative over song titles. Honestly. Isn't the satisfaction of knowing you are right enough?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">When anyone (such as your naive narrator) pointedly disagrees with a Mavis-proposed initiative, we are all reminded of the shame and pain Mavis felt when she was assaulted. And how not accepting her idea makes her feel shunned and victimized. Seriously. Its the first time I've ever heard a woman exploit her own abuse to get her way. Its one thing to guilt people into taking your side to get your way- but brining abuse or rape into it? Really?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I know I may not sound like the most compassionate person in world right now, but lets get one thing straight. Molestation is not an exclusive event. Its awful and life changing and happens to more people than will ever admit to it publicly. I don't want to hear about your issues until I know you personally for at least a month, maybe three. And if you are a coworker- I don't care if you were forced to suck off a Clydesdale when you were six- leave personal issues outside of the workplace.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Do I think her sexual history made her crazy? I have no doubt that it affected her in profound ways. Is it an excuse for her behavior? No. </span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">How a person chooses to deal with the hand they are dealt is up to them. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Fortunately, Mavis and her defensive attitude and all her baggage lasted only a few months. I don't really know what her work contributions were, but her personal issues will live on in infamy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Assignment Notes: Write a short bio about a crazy lady you know.<br />CG Notes: I realize this is more venting than a bio. I am so frustrated by people, particularly women, who choose the path of the victim for extended period of time.<br /></span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-48981311646849808002008-11-20T21:10:00.001-06:002008-11-24T00:33:29.463-06:00November 20 Gross Out (cop out, sorry!)<span style="font-family: verdana;">After reading so many fantastically gross scenes like the kid masturbating at the bottom a pool while his intestines are sucked out his asshole by the pool drain (Chuck Palahniuk's </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">Guts</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">) or the telling and retelling of the famous joke "The Aristocrats", its hard to be original.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Another part of me is apprehensive about showing you exactly how dark and disgusting I can go. I would hate to turn you off before I had a chance to turn you on.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">So instead, I will let Bob Saget tell you a lovely little story about a family trying to break into show business.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Someday I'll share my disgusting side with you. I promise.</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BfRJSmrQSDk&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BfRJSmrQSDk&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Assignment Notes: Words can be just as powerful at evoking strong physical reactions as images or smells. Use your words to truly gross out a reader. You can write about an experience from your past or just create something. It just needs to be really, really disgusting</span>.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-69655187562641403262008-11-15T21:23:00.000-06:002008-11-23T21:07:34.377-06:00November 15 Recycled Moments<span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: italic;">CG Note:</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: italic;">Wow. This topic could almost describe a series of vignettes I wrote a while back. I, like many people, have a tendency to come up with the perfect comeback long after the moment has passed. The comeback that would have given me the upper hand, or made me seem witty, or competent, or maybe even sexy. Or that would have gotten me fired, smacked or killed. Really. One of my better qualities is that, under MOST situations, I know when to shut up. Sadly, I usually err on the side of self preservation- which doesn't lead to good storytelling.<br /><br />Frankly, as I am thinking back on moments that could make good "recycle" moments, I can feel my body temp rise- but not in that tingly way. I'll let you in on a little secret- when I'm upset, my body heats up. Its kinda like the Hulk, but with less green and no clothing is ruined. Why are all the recycled moments I'm coming up with are the missed chances, or the mean things I did or the cruel actions I accepted tacitly from others?<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">So I think I'll just stick with the way things are for now. As it stands, I can't even think of a Christmas gift I should have given. I can only move forward from this moment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Assignment Notes: Today is America Recycles Day. Think of something in your past: an item, a person, an event, a feeling, that you wish you could recycle and write about it.</span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-4825439338429358102008-11-13T21:22:00.002-06:002008-11-23T20:08:19.960-06:00November 13 Process- Avoiding WorkHow to Avoid Work After Work<br /><br />6:15 pm: Arrive home from work. Set laptop bag on chair.<br /><br />6:16 pm: Put dog on leash, walk to mailbox. Grab contents from mailbox and return to house.<br /><br />6:19 pm: Brace yourself when dog spots a squirrel and takes running leap towards it.<br /><br />6:20 pm: Pick up mail you dropped when dog attempted to consume squirrel.<br /><br />6:21 pm: Recycle all contents from mailbox except the PHE catalog and Williams Sonoma catalog.<br /><br />6:30 pm: Glance over at laptop back. Think to self, "I'll get to it at 7:00."<br /><br />6:35 pm: Pour glass of wine, turn on oven, turn on TV.<br /><br />6:36 pm: Note that the DVR has recent South Park, Rock of Love Charm School AND Daily Show.<br /><br />7:15 pm: Remember to put chicken in the oven. Remind self to start work after dinner.<br /><br />7:35 pm: Remove chicken and fix avocado/tomato salad and slice bread with olive oil. Refill wine glass.<br /><br />8:45 pm: Tell self that you will start work at 9pm.<br /><br />8:56 pm: Log on to Blogspot and see if you can write anything for 30 days of write.<br /><br />9:15 pm: Decide you can't come up with anything good so you visit random websites that you really could view at anytime.<br /><br />10:30 pm: Tell self that you will start work after the Colbert Report. Refill wine glass.<br /><br />11:02 pm: Begin to wonder if there is anything that *really* needs to be done before 9am the next morning.<br /><br />11:05 pm: convince yourself that you will get up early and do the work before heading into the office the next morning.<br /><br />11:06 pm: Resume the "visit Blogspot, see if you can come up with anything good, visit random websites" cycle for the next two hours.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Assignment Notes: From cooking breakfast to creating a blog, most of the things we do in our day-to-day lives involve a process. In a process analysis essay, you write to explain how to do something or how something works. Pick anything that you do in your daily life and write an interesting process analysis of it.<br />Good Process Analysis:<br />• Either helps readers perform the steps themselves or helps them understand how something works<br />• Presents the essential steps in a process<br />• Explains steps in detail<br />• Presents steps in logical order (usually time order - chronological)<br /><br />CG Notes: I'm cheating- its really 11/23, but I'm determined to make up for lost posts. I write processes all day at work, so this is kind of a process-protest, if you will.<br /></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-29142277940391353342008-11-12T22:12:00.007-06:002008-12-03T22:45:25.704-06:00November 11 1000 Words<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wDUxh0Orb39ay0AHchLH11xOWrZ_Qi-nokmneqoVuw7L5JSRZ_9bixY294aKCanAjCgFMN4WjncAMuG5erv9CQrQrjUURpYeh39_SXciT_cH-YId1Bq48sOjV6N5d0lgb-L_7f3Vrw/s1600-h/sastisfied.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wDUxh0Orb39ay0AHchLH11xOWrZ_Qi-nokmneqoVuw7L5JSRZ_9bixY294aKCanAjCgFMN4WjncAMuG5erv9CQrQrjUURpYeh39_SXciT_cH-YId1Bq48sOjV6N5d0lgb-L_7f3Vrw/s320/sastisfied.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268039080887330642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Today is the first day of the rest of your life.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Every journey begins with a single step.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Not all who wander are lost.</span><br /><br />The strange clinking had started again. Or maybe it had been going all along and a soft love song had come on the radio. Lara had been driving for miles without the relief of a working air conditioner. Her 1987 Ford pickup was slowly beginning to betray her as it rattled down the highway.</span> </p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">She checked her rearview mirror and made sure her load was still secure. The clinking noise came from under the hood so she knew her freight was safe, for now. When she had stopped before at some lonesome service station outside of <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Fort</st1:PlaceType> <st1:placename st="on">Stockton</st1:PlaceName></st1:place>, the attendant was pretty fair with her.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I’ll tell you what,” he said, eyeing the back of the truck. “I’ll tell you what. The part that’s causing you the trouble could be fixed. But I can tell that you ain’t in a position to pay. So this is what I’m gonna tell you. That part there ain’t essential to get you to where you are going. The road is not going to be as comfortable or as nice- or, as you’ll see, as quiet. But you’ll be okay with out it.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The patch on his shirt said “Joseph.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I have money,” Laura replied, reaching toward her back pocket. She did. She had enough to fix the A/C, and a little extra tucked away in the back should a true emergency befall her.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Miss, I have daughters. I have a son, too. But- and forgive me for bein’ fatherly with you and all, but you seem to be going someplace. And I just think your cash is better spent at your destination that on a part that won’t hurt you none to do without.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Laura signed, looking back at her truck.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Am I right? “</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Laura turned back to him. “I’d like a Coke then.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The truck had been her older brother’s. He was 8 years older than her. She was only ten years old when he went to fight in Desert Storm. Every picture she drew for him had an American flag in the background. She took careful and deliberate steps to make sure she got all the stars and all the stripes in the right places. She wouldn’t settle for only 11 stripes or an accidental star. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Her drawings and a giant batch of brownies were sent to Teddy in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Iraq</st1:place></st1:country-region> each month. And each month following, her mom would read her a letter from Teddy and the troops thanking her for the pictures and the brownies. Lara kept these letters in a box next to her pens sketchpads. The box contained the last letter Teddy ever sent them. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Her drawings eventually developed into art work. The American flag making an occasional appearance, but not as prominent as people. Laura would sketch her mother- stirring the brownie mix with a huge wooden spoon, looking out the window, sitting silently on the edge of the bed holding a photo of Teddy.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Laura’s father would make an occasional appearance- sitting at the breakfast table lost in thought, sitting in front of the television for the nightly news, then the primetime shows, then the late news and eventually the late night comedy shows. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Everyone always commented on how lifelike her drawings were- these drawings of people who aren’t living. The expressions were so realistic, the fold of the blanket was exact, the listless turn of the spoon in the brownie batter. Not a star out of place. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">It took everything Laura had not to scream at her parents, “I’M here! Do you see me? I’M alive!” She wanted them to break out of their mourning. To look up and see that although the family was not the same, they were still a family. She used her images as mirrors- hoping that her parents would recognize who they used to be before Teddy went off to war.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The day after she graduated high school, she drew her last picture. She sketched a family portrait. Her mom and dad were seated in two chairs turned inward so their knees almost touched. Their faces stoic and expressionless, complexions pale- both looking at something in the distance beyond the painter.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">A translucent Teddy in fatigues was standing between the chairs with his hands resting on the back of each. A cocky smile on his face- just like his senior portrait three years earlier- except this time with a smudge of brownie crumbs around the corner of his mouth. His hands splayed in such a way that a person could mistake them for holding puppet strings. But that wasn’t Laura’s intent. She should have been more careful about that.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Laura placed herself into the portrait as a photograph that had fallen to the floor. A ten year old girl with a wide open smile holding a sunflower that was nearly the size of her head. The photo was slightly worn at the edges and was resting against her mother’s shoe. She wanted to send a message, but she doubted that her parents would be capable of hearing it.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">She left the drawing on her mother’s side of the bed and got in the truck and left. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p style="font-family: verdana;"> </o:p><span style="font-family: verdana;">So here she is. Three days away from </span><st1:place style="font-family: verdana;" st="on"><st1:city st="on">Julian</st1:City>, <st1:state st="on">California</st1:State></st1:place><span style="font-family: verdana;"> in her brother’s truck with broken air conditioner and a working radio.</span></span><span style=""> </span></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> CG Notes: So its not 1000 words yet. And I'm not sure what is in the back of the truck. What do you think is back there?</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><br /><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Assignment Notes:</span></i> <i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">It’s said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Upload a pic to your blog and write Exactly 1,000 words about it.</span></i></p> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-57225935471897394282008-11-10T23:19:00.009-06:002008-11-13T01:18:30.092-06:00November 10 Color<span style="font-family:verdana;">The roly-poly bug was still in a little roly-poly sphere in the palm of her hand. She cupped her hand and rolled the bug around like a little grey pearl, trying to get it to open up. But the roly-poly bug remained in its tight little ball, its little plates of amour concealing the rest of it completely. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ava held her one hand stiff and used her other hand to hunt for a long blade of grass. She would try to coax the roly-poly from its increasingly uninteresting pose with food- or what she figured was food. It wasn't a carnivore, or else she couldn't hold it, she reasoned. So it must be an herbivore. And herbivores eat grass.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">As her attention was focused on foraging, the little pearl opened slowly revealing several pairs of golden-grey legs and a set of black antennae. Its carbon colored plates retracted smoothly, gliding over each other like a gunmetal flower blooming to welcome the sun.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The tickling of tiny legs pulled Ava's attention back to her cupped hand. The roly-poly had made its way to the base of her thumb and turned towards her wrist. She dared not breathe for fear of scaring it back into its defensive position. Ava watched it steadily find its way along the inside of her arm. As the roly-poly reached to crook of her elbow, she gently picked it off her arm and placed it on the bricks beside her and dug her toes into the summer grass.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Assignment Notes</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> Color is a powerful tool that can brighten up a room as well as give life to a piece of writing. Pick an unusual color from your Crayola box and bring it to life.</span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6101678862908440803.post-91965179519933155002008-11-09T20:22:00.004-06:002008-11-10T23:05:36.585-06:00November 9 Trivial Pursuit<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Trivial Pursuit- Equestrian Version- with extra sass.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br />Because I love horsies.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />1. "Snaffle," "curb" and "pelham" are terms for several kinds of what?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />2. Why do people lead and/or mount a horse from the left hand side?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />3. When a male horse and a jenny (female donkey) mate, what is the name of their offspring?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />4. According to legend, there is only one way a unicorn can be caught. What is this method?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />5. In 1975 Michael Murphy sang a song about a girl and a horse. What was the name of the song?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />6.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> How many hours did I spend looking at pony-play websites after writing question 1?</span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~<br /><br />1. Answer: Riding bits (the part of the bridle that goes into the horse's mouth). Or the part of the bridle that goes into your "pony's" mouth for those of you into pony-play. Dirty monkies.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >2. Answer: Knights wore their swords on the left to make it easily accessible with the right hand. You try swinging your leg and huge heavy sword up and over a horse at the same time.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" > That searing pain? Yeah, that's you throwing out your back, genius.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />3. Answer: A hinny. Not a mule, dumbass.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><br /></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br />4. Answer: Send a virgin into the woods and the unicorn will lay his head in her lap. Seriously. If you knew any virgins, you'd know this.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />5. Answer: Wildfire</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gOOb6fEHPQ4&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gOOb6fEHPQ4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">6. Answer: I will only admit to the first hour.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >So you just got a job writing for Trivial Pursuit. They are branching out from their general trivia games and creating more niche brands. Create a niche and create a six-question card for your game. Your niche should be a little odd-so no movies, music, etc.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ></span></span>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608063616153763724noreply@blogger.com1