Today’s Special

Five a Day

You’ve being exiled to a private island, and your captors will only supply you with five foods. What do you pick?

This took me awhile to figure out. But when I did I went straight for my bathroom mirror and kissed my reflection.

:::DRUMROLL PLEASE:::

I would take:

J sometimes referred to in some circles as G

( old , tough and  probably gristly but  it’s soaked in wine so I’m sure it’s  good for broth making )

C

( definitely good for roasting )

S

( a little of this goes a long way )

T

( Oh, why not)

and of course

E

( no taste at all- for garnish only  )

So is this me being clever?

Do I intend to take as many food stuffs with those letters with me to the nowhere place that I’m going to be sent to?

Uh.

No.

All I can say is, I’m well schooled in human anatomy, corpses hold no fear for me I’m one hell of a cook and I’ll eat like a queen till help arrives.

You know.

Help for me.

Not them.

For them it would be too late.

 

If I Only Had A Brain…Or Two

DAILY PROMPT

Clone Wars

If you could clone yourself, how would you split up your responsibilities?

 Writing is about the only thing I can make myself do.

I can do it on my bad days, my good days even on days when I don’t have anything to say.

So if I could clone myself what crud jobs would I give my secondary me?

I’d have that ‘me’ do all my caretaking stuff- the day to day grind- the housework, the cooking- almost everything except for my day job and taking care of my cats and dog.

But the reality is, I hate that stuff myself and when I slack off I don’t feel bad about it.

So how would I get my clone to do it?

I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, me and my clone would agree to blow it off.

I know myself, if I don’t want to give I don’t.

However, I’ll bet if my clone and I put our heads together we could find someone else to do the work for the BOTH of us.

And The Truth Shall Send You Straight To The Principal’s Office

Daily Prompt

Truth or Dare

Is it possible to be too honest, or is honesty always the best policy?

Of course honesty is the best policy.

Honesty earns you trust and respect.

On the other hand, we’ve seen honesty used as a blunt instrument in many a murder of the heart and mind haven’t we?

So, that led me to wonder, are you being honest when you take the truth, twist it around someone’s neck until they turn blue and their tongue pops out of their mouth and they are for sure dead?

I don’t think so, I think at that point you used honesty for your own personal gain that makes it a lie.

 

When I was a kid one of my classmates referred to me as ‘ the black cat sitting on a Cadillac’. It was a TV jingle at the time. But before you knew it I was being called a Black Cat by everyone…she would not stop. So one day I hauled off and punched her in the eye and ended up in the Principal’s office with my Teacher- who was very fond of grabbing me by hair on the top or back of my head and shaking it  from side to side to get my attention.

In fact, that’s how she got me to the office that day. Dragging me down past my classmates, other teachers and a janitor by the hair on the back of my head.

Nobody looked surprised.

So, we get into the office and the Principal and Teacher tell me, in all honesty ( they said )  that it wasn’t my classmate’s FAULT that I was different. I was told -almost kindly- by our Principal that I looked different and what I NEEDED to do was develop a sense of humor about BEING DIFFERENT from everyone else.

And then they brought my classmate in – with her Mother who they called right away ( my Mom got a note two days later) and told me I needed to apologize.

I looked into those self righteous  faces, and into my classmate’s smirking expectant one- and from the bottom of my racing little heart-  in all honesty-  and on the verge of tears said with amazement

” That shiner is a beaut, isn’t it?”

I’m Pretty Sure You Don’t Want To Do That

Daily Prompt

Buffalo Nickel

Dig through your couch cushions, your purse, or the floor of your car and look at the year printed on the first coin you find. What were you doing that year?

 

About 17 years ago I lost 50.00.

I was shopping and I’m pretty sure that when I reached into my unorganized purse and pulled out my unorganized wallet the 50.00 dropped out.

Do you know what really made me mad?

It wasn’t that I lost the  50.00- though that did sting. No. What really made me mad was that some lucky ducky found 50.00.

I have never looked down and found anything larger then a penny.

That’s what really made me mad- in my life I have never been that lucky but on that day I sure as Hell made sure somebody else was.

So ever since that black marked day I don’t carry cash.

I use my debit card.

And here’s the reason why.

When I was in high school I went to church with my friend.

Her Church was one of those people speaking in tongues and writhing in the aisles with snakes kind of church.

It was better then any horror movie because  the feeling in that church was dark and oppressive and if something would have reached up through the floor  in an explosion of brick and mortar  and faded plum colored carpeting and pulled us down  one by one and  kicking and screaming and dripping entrails all the way through the gates of Hell..I wouldn’t have been surprised

But on that day they were going on about people being marked with numbers- specifically credit card numbers.

That was how Satan was going to mark us…so whatever you do, don’t get one of those cards.

No problem. I was like 17 at the time. I didn’t see myself to ever be in a position to be ‘marked by Satan’.

It was shortly after I lost that money and made someone else very lucky I remembered that day in the Church- how we would be marked and cursed and turned into Demons doing the Devil’s work for all of eternity  if we got numbered.

Oh really? I thought. Is that how it works? Because I was tired of being the softie who gave in ( most of the time m)  with just about everyone in my life…my kids, my job, holding the doors open for people, and now apparently I am throwing money around like confetti at a New Years Eve Party.

I dug through my desk drawer, found my Debit card, activated it and since then I haven’t carried cash. I’ll be damned ( literally ) if I ever make someone’s day like that again.

I must say though:

When I pull that card out I feel wicked.

Very wicked.

And it feels….good.

Good Girl! Good Girl!

DAILY PROMPT

Proud

When was the last time someone told you they were proud of you?

 

 

A few years ago I became weary of people who repeatedly told me how proud they were of me.

I’m not sure why I felt that way, but a couple of people seemed to say it non-stop and it got on my nerves.

 Not that I’m one of those people who say, ‘ I don’t care what people think  of me’ because I do. I care a lot. I guess I’m just a wad of insecurities.

But when I heard, ” I’m so proud of you.” I realized, recently, that I tell my puppy the same thing.

When he does what I tell him to do.

When he performs to my expectations.

I am so proud of him for being what I want him to be.

Tick Tock Tick Tock

DAILY PROMPT

Twenty-Five Seven

Good news — another hour has just been added to every 24-hour day (don’t ask us how. We have powers). How do you use those extra sixty minutes?

I love to watch those tv shows where women are looking for the perfect bridal gown.

My favorite dresses are the ones that Gypsy women wear. They’re big and over the top and the drama behind it all…I love it. And do you know those dresses actually cause them physical pain? Bruises? Cuts?

And they do it anyway because this is the biggest day of their lives.

At least they don’t pretend otherwise. I know a lot of women who have marched down the aisle and when they got to the end of it that was it for them too.

They’ll never admit it though.

But I digress.

I noticed that the women who have a small budget and the ones who aren’t concerned about the cost have the same problem-

finding a dress.

One is hampered by the lack of funds and the other is hampered by their endless choices.

That leaves me with the question- what would I do if I had an extra hour everyday?

I could write, read, shop, eat.

In reality I think I’d sleep it away or do what most people do- I’d still be complaining that there aren’t enough hours in the day.

So instead of having 24 hours to bitch about I’d have 25.

But if I had an extra minute- I could use that.

It only takes a minute to decide to turn left or right- that’s life changing.

And who wouldn’t like to have a chance everyday for that to be a possibility?

When This You Read Think Of Me…

DAILY PROMPT

Reader’s Block

What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without reading a book (since learning how to read, of course)? Which book was it that helped break the dry spell?

I have to have a book on me.

There’s one in my purse, one in my tote bag and another in the backpack I carry my laptop in.

I change them out, but for the most part  I travel with Dickens, King and M.R James.

I won’t say I prefer books to conversations, because I really do like to talk to people. But books, I love to read them. Every chance I get.

When I get my hands on a new book I’ll read it staright through. And whoa be to the rotten books because I won’t stop reading until I’m done.

If I invest that much time in a book, I feel like I have every right to tell anyone who will listen exactly how I wasted “X” amount of time on a piece of junk and how I will go to my grave and through all of eternity regretting the decision to pick up that book ever.

Or I will say, ” I can’t believe an innocent tree died for this piece of junk”.

There are times though when I will read one book for the pleasure of it, because the words are music to my eyes and I will read it slow. One chapter a night ONLY.

That book is Great Expectations by Dickens.

I love the way he uses the language, I love every single character, I love the darkness- both in the characters and the scenes- every turning point takes place in the shadows even when the characters are in full sunlight.

Lucky for me, I’ve never suffered from Reader’s Block…but then again I have had Charles Dickens in my life for a very long time.

That’s probably why.

You And Your Hand

DAILY PROMPT

Counting Voices

A lively group discussion, an intimate tête-à-tête, an inner monologue — in your view, when it comes to a good conversation, what’s the ideal number of people?

According to the world of Facebook, most people have at least a hundred friends and they share their feelings, their thoughts and what they ate on a daily if not hourly basis.

I don’t know about you, but when I was a kid my Mom use to make me check in at least once an hour. And could I call in? Oh no. I had to show up say I was checking in and then I was  free to leave.

That is, until the next check in time.

I hated doing that- and I would tell her I did which is why I found myself having to run home to check in instead of calling.

I knew I was on my way to be independent when she stopped making me check in almost hourly to every few hours and then I could call- which I forgot to do.

But in those days we didn’t have Malls or computers or parents who drove us from block to block on demand.

So me and my friends were free rangers, just like the chickens.

Looking back on it, because we were wandering around so much it made sense to have check ins. In a few hour we could easily have ended up a  mile or two from home and not just blocks.

Nowadays people obediently check in via Facebook.

And we what passes for conversation is created by you and your hand and the few words or quips you throw into your status box.

We tell people we don’t really know details about where we are and who we’re hanging out with and what we’re drinking, smoking or eating.

In other words we tell Facebook things our parents would have given their eyeteeth to know…complete with pictures.

If I have anything to say about conversations on Facebook it’s this:

My Mom would have never accepted ” notes ” in the place of check ins.

One’s presence was required at those moments. You know, you had to actually be there for it to count.

It’s a different world now, isn’t it?

It’s A Living Thing

Dictionary, Shmictionary

Time to confess: tell us about a time when you used a word whose meaning you didn’t actually know (or were very wrong about, in retrospect).

There’s something to be said growing up in a family where English was not the first language  on one side  and not exactly mastered ( there are no Grammar Nazis hanging in this girl’s family tree ) on the other side- what can be said is this:

If you didn’t know the meaning of a word or needed one you just asked.

No problem.

But you will always have that one person in the family who will get it wrong on purpose. Because she has mastered the perfect poker face, because she is so focused on you that she will watch you cringe, or try not to laugh or feel embarrassed for her because…

she thinks it’s funny.

And no I’m not talking about myself, I’m talking about my Mom- the slayer of syntax, the butcher of innocent words, the serial killer of complete sentences.

My Mom would have you believe she doesn’t know better, but the fact is in order for you to twist things around like that you really do have to know what you’re saying.

Of course there’s no fun in that so…

My Dad and his cousin built my dog this great dog house and he hardly used it because he was an Alaskan Malamute and we lived outside of Seattle, so the weather never got so bad he had to take shelter in it.

My cats on the other hand loved that house because it was carpeted and warm.

So it was at Thanksgiving and the family is enjoying this great meal and we’re all dressed up when my Mom looks out the kitchen window and says to my Dad and his cousin John:

” Look at those cats, they’ve taken over Sham’s dog house. I’ll bet that’s why he won’t go in it. You know what you should do Bert? You and John should build a cat house. They’d really enjoy it.”

” So would the rest of the neighborhood. ” my Grandma said.

I bit down on my fork and the evidence is my still slightly chipped front tooth. My brother slapped his forehead- hard- and my Dad and his cousin both enthusiastically   agreed a Cat House was a good idea.

” The girls could make curtains for it- ” my Mom said referring to me and my sister- she led us to believe ” and put little beds in there…”

I couldn’t stand it anymore.

” Mom! Do you know what a Cat House is?” You do right?”

My Mom shrugged. ” Of course I do. It’s where Cats live.”

” Ma! It’s where Prostitutes live…”

One of my other cousins enlightened us all ” Oh, I think they just work there,  they don’t live there.”

” Well,” my Mom went on as if she hadn’t heard us say a word. ”  I always said the best cat to have around is one that works hard- you know catching mice- so why shouldn’t they have a nice bed to sleep on and pretty curtains? “

” Mom! A Cat House is a Whore House. You know what they are right?”

” Of course I know. And I also know you weren’t listening to a word I said.”

It took me awhile to figure out what she meant. She was right. I wasn’t listening to her, I was listening at her. I knew exactly what she intended to say. So why didn’t I let it go?

So now when someone twists a word around I sort of go with it. And when I use the wrong word- it’s no sweat.

But when my Mom does it I just stand there and drop what I’m doing and watch the carnage unfold right  before my eyes.

It’s like looking at nine or ten cars right after they’ve rear ended each other on the freeway- there’s broken glass and bits of cars and Fire Engines and First Aid Cars and Police  cars all over the place- and I know I shouldn’t- but I’ll look. And then I’ll stare. I’ can’t help myself.

My Mom and her impact on language have the same effect on me.

Fish Sticks, Pirates and Me

DAILY PROMPT

Ready, Set, Done

10 minutes. You and your keyboard (or smartphone. Or tablet. Or pen and paper). No pauses, no edits, no looking back: it’s free-write time!

When I was little I had two goals- I wanted to write, and become a Pirate.

On most days I saw no reason I couldn’t do both.

 I was eight at the time.

Out of my two life goals the Pirate gig seemed to be doable and practical.

I could see myself sailing a ship, bossing around a crew of scurvy sea dogs and kicking heinie  in all of the Seven Seas and a few lakes and rivers to boot.

I didn’t care so much about finding treasure, but the idea of sneaking up on another Pirate ship in the middle of the night and stealing their flag and crew?

My little old heart would race with happiness thinking about what kind of things I could do as a Pirate.

I would go to church just so I could pray like crazy for God to please make me a Pirate.

Please God, I’d pray, I don’t want to be a stewardess or a waitress or a Mom. I want to be a pirate and sail a big black ship and have other Pirates be so scared of me and my crew that they’d all stay home and I would have the Ocean to myself.

And for some reason I had it in my head that I’d leave the Ferry Boats alone and probably fishing boats too.

Fishing boats because I used to love fish sticks and unless someone went out there and fished  I figured  I’d probably starve to death and as for the Ferry Boats? Well. Back in the day my family went to Victoria BC so I didn’t see any reason to give up on  my great family vacations  – so for sure the Ferry Boats wouldn’t have to worry about me or my wicked crew.

Nowadays there are times when I’m riding the bus home for work, or when I’m in line at the grocery store and I remember those days when anything seemed possible and I thought one day I’d be a Pirate.

And after a moment or two, I think…you know…anything is possible.

After all, I did manage to become a writer ( of sorts )

So anything is possible.

Anything at all.

Time Out

One-Way Street

Congrats! You’re the owner of a new time machine. The catch? It comes in two models, each traveling one way only: the past OR the future. Which do you choose, and why?

If I could visit anytime, anywhere if I could leave right now I’d go into the future.

When I was a teenager I had a terrible nightmare that I woke up, covered with dust and the ground under me was solid rock and under the thin layer of gray dust it sparkled like it was covered with frost. I looked up and the sky was orange, and the sun was gigantic red and bloated. The moon was huge- it filled the sky.

The Moon hung in the East and the Sun was in the North.

I tried to scream myself awake when I realized I was in my own yard and the world was dead.

Dead and barren and airless.

And freezing cold.

Nothing was alive, not even me.

That was the future I dreamed about and to this day that image of a dead world and a dead Sun and the Moon, which was never alive was turning the wrong way.

I couldn’t tell you if  it was a million years in the future or a hundred years but to this day I wonder if that’s what the world will look like after everything is dead and gone.

So if I could time travel I’d want to go into the future. All the way to the end of time. And then I’d want to see what happens next.

Does everything start over? Or does it die and just stay dead forever?

I can’t see myself going into the past.

I know how that story goes.

But the Science Geek in me has would probably want to go to one minute before the Big Bang.

I’ve heard that it was truly a hellacious event.

Think about it.

It was quiet and dark and then all of a sudden the Universe is ripped apart and it’s guts fell out and  ta da!

Here we are.

But that minute before. Sure. I’d like to see that.

Not a minute after.

One minute before.

I’ve worked with the dead, with loss and grief.

To me the past is a freshly dug and filled grave. I’d no more visit the past then I would take a shovel and dig up a coffin and pop it open.

But the future, all that uncharted territory, the not knowing what’s going to happen next. The surprises. The dreams that were realized ( good and bad ).  I figure sneaking a peek at the future is a lot like sneaking a peek at your Christmas presents- sure you know what you’re going to get on the BIG DAY.

But you still have to wait for the BIG DAY to get your hands on the presents.

The upshot is, I’d rather hope then go to a place where there is hope. To me the past doesn’t offer that.

The future is bursting with it.

And that’s where I’d like to go.

Once Upon A Time

Daily Prompt

Fictional Intruder

Go down the rabbit hole with Alice; play quidditch with Harry Potter; float down the river with Huck Finn… If you could choose three fictional events or adventures to experience yourself, what would they be?

Oh where to start.

Where to Start.

If I could choose three fictional events to participate in I would:

Want to be  with Father Merrin in the Exorcist when he is standing in the desert in Iraq and he’s looking at the statue of Pazuzu and he knows that dark days are ahead.

I’d have loved to have been there with Scrooge in the graveyard when he sees his name on the tombstone  and

I’d really have liked to have taken that carriage ride with Johnathan Harker to Dracula’s Castle in the Carpathian Mountains.

I’m going to be honest here.

I would want to be that Statue of Pazuzu and have been able to have looked into Father Merrin’s eyes…I would have invited him to run, but of course I would have hoped he wouldn’t

and I’d like to have been the Ghost who took Scrooge to the cemetery to see his lonely grave and I would have told him to relax. All graves are lonely and eventually they are all forgotten

and I’d have liked to have taken those reigns and taken Harker on the ride of his life through the Carpathian Mountains. By the time I was done he would have  walked all the way back to England and Dracula would have been a different book all together.

Those are just moments in a story but I’ve been there over and over again and those moments feel like a lifetime.

There’s No Place Like ( A Funeral ) Home

DAILY PROMPT

Ready, Set, Done

Our weekly free-write is back: take ten minutes — no pauses! — to write about anything, unfiltered and unedited. You can then publish the post as-is, or edit a bit first — your call.

 

When I worked at a funeral home, my view on the death penalty changed

It changed the day I walked in and we were back logged and every cot and table were full. I saw all those dead people and thought:

” Why would anyone create one of those on purpose? Nature seems to do well enough on its own.”

People commit suicide in cemeteries. I’m not sure what their reasons are but this is how I felt about the Funeral Home in general.

The living  just visit there- to me it felt like a reception area to the next world, but in the end we didn’t belong there. No way would I want that to be the last place I saw before I go one to  meet my maker.

I always felt sad when I heard those stories, because cemeteries are lonesome places. Terribly beautiful but sad.

I used to eat a lot of Pez after I embalmed a body.

I still haven’t figured that one out.

Strange as it may sound, I did have a fun day at work now and then. Like the time I had to go do a removal at a retirement center.

It was a huge industrial looking place- and as we do in most places we go through the back door.

This time there were two old guys sitting there in lawn chairs when I came out with the deceased.

They reminded me of crows- at first.

” Hey.” said one old guy, ” he was my friend.”

“Was he?” I asked, sensing that these two guys would not appreciate polite banter. So I stopped for a little chat.  ” How long did you know each other?”

” Long enough to know ” his friend sitting next to him said slapping his knee ” that this is the only time in his life he was taken out by a beautiful woman”

” Oh come on now. “

” Look, promise me this when I go come and get me. Or if you got a good looking friend at work send her. But no matter who it is, wear that dress.”

I didn’t laugh…I roared with laughter. ” Hey. There’s laws about harassing women like this you Wolves you.”

” Yea. Sure. Whatever sweetheart. I was an attorney and he was a cop and our friend there did time for robbery in his young day. You’re surrounded by them.
“

I considered this. ” Ok. But you should know that nobody can hit an artery faster then me.”

” Marry me . ” said my talkative friend. ” Marry me now.”

I used to visit a grave in the children’s cemetery that we called Babyland. My baby cousin is buried there. He died from SIDS back in the late 60’s.

A row down from him is the grave of a baby who died on the year and the same day I was born. For each holiday that rolled around someone came out and put out seasonal directions.

I wonder if I would have ever met him had he lived.

Remember the Tall Man from the Phantasm movies? Angus Srimm? I had a picture of him and Anubis on my desk. And wind up lady bug toy that was the size of a quarter.

I used to find my pictures on different places on my desk because people would pick them up to look at them.

But they never touched that lady bug.

GPS THIS!

DAILY PROMPT

Back to Life

After an especially long and exhausting drive or flight, a grueling week at work, or a mind-numbing exam period — what’s the one thing you do to feel human again?

 

 

 Just before I turned 49 one of my cousins died, my Dad died, both of my dogs died and  for the first time since I began writing at age 9 I honestly could not write a word because the inspiration, the joy of it all was just gone.

Losing my ability to write was the hardest thing that happened that year, it was hard because I had always seen myself as being the person who wrote.

So with my identity in the crapper and on it’s way to wherever raw sewage gets sent ( oh sure…it ALL gets sent to a treatment plant I am SURE) my entire life came to a screeching halt.

I felt less then human on so many levels.

The first thing I tried to get back was my Writing Mojo.

Do you know the world is full of advice on how to do that? They write books about it, you can go to lectures about it, ” All you have to do, ” I was told over and over again ” is just sit down and write.”

” Oh really? ” I remember thinking. ” Wow. That’s SO obvious. Why the heck didn’t I think of that?”

Well of course it wasn’t that easy.

Most of the time I wrote snarky obituaries for people who thought it was so simple, all I had to do was just ‘sit down and write’. You know what I wanted to do? Tell them I took their advice and show them what I was writing. I remember thinking I’d lose some friends but there would be a few less red wagons in need of fixing out there in the big bad world.

So in the end, as it often is often the case, I found my own way,  sat down and started to write again.

I didn’t read advice books, I didn’t go to a meetup and talk to other writers about not being able to write.

One day I sat down here at my blog and started to read my stories.

The older stories were the first stories I wrote- and I left them as is because over the years I thought it would be cool to see how I grew as writer. I’d do a lot of them different, but why mess with the work of a writer who worked that hard? As it was, I loved those. I’m proud of them. Even if they are far from perfect.

 And then I got to the more recent ones and I couldn’t believe they were mine.

It made me want to write again so I picked up on these daily posts at WordPress. I looks forward to doing one ( or two ) a day.

Of course I don’t think I’m doing them exactly right, but what’s the worst that can happen? I can’t get fired for not following the rules and nobody is going to die over it.

 My responses are what they are.

In  the end I felt human again, like Anita Marie the writer again because I went back and found myself lost there in the weeds and ruins- and there in that mess was my writer’s voice just waiting for me.

I think I was lucky this time.

May we never part ways again.

You Have Some Explaining To Do

DAILY PROMPT

Verbal Confirmation

To be, to have, to think, to move — which of these verbs is the one you feel most connected to? Or is there another verb that characterizes you better?

 

 

Oh boy!

A prompt where I get to explain myself.

Oh boy!

I don’t think so.

Oh well. Stephen King says you shouldn’t shy away from writing because the topic is to hard so I’ll give it a whack.

I think I’ll try to explain why I write.

It’s what I do, so how hard can it be?

I write fiction because it makes sense. Life not so much.

You know what Mark Twain said right?  He said,

“Of course truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.”

Boy was he right.

I’ve written whoppers about Killer Grandmothers and what happens when the Devil has a bad hair day and I did one about a woman who gets inspired to bake a new kind of pie for Halloween.

Weird as those stories are, I can’t cheat the reader – they have to make sense, they have to follow rules, they must have a sense of order.

Life.

Ha.

In real life my nephew died from a disease called Friedreich’s ataxia and that made no sense. None. I couldn’t write a story where that happens because in a million years I couldn’t come up with a reason for that to happen to anyone.

If I tried people wouldn’t buy it, they’d say ” Oh come on, stuff like that doesn’t drop out of the sky and hit someone on the head.”

But that’s what happened.

My dog was diagnosed with a serious heart condition when she was about 11. The vet thought she had a few months to live, he gave her some meds to control her cough and we decided to let her run her clock down on her own because she was eating, sleeping and active and alert.

 On  her last day at age 14, and at that time she was still active, alert though she was frail looking,  I came home from work, we went for a walk and then we ate our dinner together. When we were done she went to her bed  and she  died.

I could never explain that one either. Saying ‘just because’ wouldn’t cut it. She had a will to live and die on her own terms. And I don’t know where that came from.

It made no sense.

Me being able to write makes no sense either, my love for it, the ease that it came to me made no sense.

 I remember I was little- I was like six and I remember being desperate to learn to read because I wanted to write so much.

By the end of my first year in school I was reading at a first grade level,  in fact I read ‘up’ a year or two until I was 12 and by then I was reading at college level.

I was driven to read so I could write. Makes no sense at all. It just happened that way.

Life is weird and full of twists and it offers no explanation for itself.

I hate that.

So I write fiction to bring some kind of order into my head and my life.

And that my friends is as close as I will ever come to explaining myself  again.

amm

And Nothing But The Truth

Truth Serum

You’ve come into possession of one vial of truth serum. Who would you give it to (with the person’s consent, of course) — and what questions would you ask?

You know that saying, ” It’s funny because it’s true?” I like the truth when it comes at me like that.

I hate it when people use the truth like a mallet and bash your brains out with it and then say…”I’m only telling you the truth because I care.”

Oh really.

Anyway.

I’d use my little vial of truth serum on one of those people ( and we all know a few of them, don’t we?) and I’m sorry but I’d skip the asking part. I’d dose them and turn them loose in let’s say, I don’t know where is the last place anyone wants to hear the truth?

Oh got it.

At a funeral.

Second to that, weddings.

Funerals and Wedding are planned, they are arranged and we know how to behave and what the steps in the process of each are. We even know what we’re suppose to wear and what to say when we talk to each other.

Do you know what happens when you don’t observe the ritual as agreed upon?

You not only get voted off the island, you get sent to another island where you are buried up to your neck in the sand, your face is smeared with honey and then you are covered with ants and bees.

Nobody wants to know ‘the truth’ at these events and much in the way of reality tv I don’t expect to hear it there either.

So using this truth serum would be like lighting the fuse on a bottle rocket.

You know, you stick the bottle rocket in a bottle ( or a beer can ) then you light the fuse and wonder- is it going to go up or just blow up there on the ground and in your face?

It would be fun just like that.

Yes.

Without a doubt.

That’s what I would do- and that’s the truth.

 

 

HELP!!!!! Wanted

Daily Prompt

Ready, Set, Done

Our free-write is back by popular demand: today, write about anything — but you must write for exactly ten minutes, no more, no less

 

I was reading one of those articles that they aim at people who are either just choosing a career path or maybe they’re looking to go on a new one.

My day job is great- there isn’t a lot of money involved, but I like the company, my co-workers awesome  and  and I like what I do.

At night I write.

Life is good.

But that article made me think outside the box. The thing of it is when I think outside the box I end up far afield. I might not learn a lot and I’m sure I’m not using the information provided as it was intended but at least I can say I enjoyed the heck of the article.

So here it is, if I could chose a dream job- if I could be anything in the world…get ready for it…

I’d be the Headless Horseman

 I’m not particularly enchanted with the idea of getting my head cut off, but in the  past I’ve worked at jobs that broke my spirit and made me feel small and stupid so how does a little decapitation compare to that?

 Exactly.

It doesn’t.

In addition I like to be out at night- the darker the better, cold enough to rattle your bones? I’m good with it. Big plus here-  I’d get to ride a wicked horse and that takes me right back to the days when I rode motorcycles – wow- be still my heart- I’d probably get to wear leather again too.

 And of course the fun part- chasing people around who like to tempt fate and pooh-pooh what they don’t understand,

I tempt fate now and then, but I don’t wait for it to turn it’s back and then sucker punch it in the back of the head. People who act like that manage to hurt everyone around them so I think it wouldn’t hurt them to get chased across a bridge on a dark, foggy night by a demonic horse and someone who really and truly loves her job.

And as for the Pooh-Poohers?

They’re the  one’s who think they know it all because they are so enlightend of heart and intellect that they can tell themselves in all honesty that  they’re not ramming their view point down your throat because they’re actually the most vicious and intolerant human beings to walk the face of the earth and are only listening  to you talk long enough so yes…they can pooh pooh what you say..

I’d like to introduce you to my not so little friend who was created to chop off limbs and is not known for making  surgical style incisions.

Of course I’m sure there are great benefits like-

I am sure you get to travel or maybe fill in for other Headless Horseman on other Bridges or Roads. Or maybe you get to chose. That would be great.

Halloween must be awesome. I’ll bet you could arrange a take your kid to work day. Of course my kids are grown up but I do have a few cats who would probably love the ride along experience because who wouldn’t?

You get to set your own hours. From what I understand the Headless Horseman pretty much show up when they want to. Awesome.

I’ll bet the Headless Horseman get to meet some cool monsters like Werewolves and Mummies and Ghosts. My guess is that they hang out in cemeteries which is fine with me because I actually used to work in one.

Indeed.

This could be the perfect job for me.

I’ve heard a bunch of different legends for how The Headless Horseman came to be.

But.

I think  ( at least I hope ) that somewhere there’s a piece of paper nailed to an old tree and written in dark brown ink ( because that’s what happens to blood when it turns old ) that says:

Do you have dedication, skill, flexability and determination to complete  your task at hand? Are you a self starter and self motivated?

Do you like horses and  are you willing to work late hours?

Then wait here.

We’ll be along shortly.

Open Up And Say ” Ouch “

Daily Prompt

Handle With Care

How are you at receiving criticism? Do you prefer that others treat you with kid gloves, or go for brutal honesty?

Really? There’s a choice?

Because in the past when people have tried to help me be an all around better writer they used brutal bare knuckle honesty because hey- they care.

I would prefer the kid glove treatment but does anybody really do that?

In my experience: No.

I was in a class once where my grade on an assignment went from average to A PLUS!

How?

Well, I listened to my critics and wrote the story exactly the way they said it SHOULD be written in order for it to be CORRECT.

I gutted – and I will admit was a less then perfect but fun read-  and made it like any other piece of crud, done to death, predictable horror story. But hey that was the RIGHT way to tell that sort of story.

I moved from the back of the class to the front ( metaphorically speaking ) when I crafted little ditties that could have been written by anybody EXCEPT for me.

That’s right, my work was recognized for being great as long as I removed any trace of Anita Marie from it.

I finished the class and this is what I learned.

If you ask for help, consider it when it is given.

If you want to ‘help’ someone take the ” I would have”  You should have ” and the infamous ” This would be better if…” out of the conversation. When it comes to writing there is a lot of technical things involving structure that we should know, so that kind of advice  is gold. And in my quest to be a better writer ( which I work at everyday) I pay attention when that advice pops up on my radar.

But I do filter it out because in my mind telling somebody how to be a better writer or  how to tell their story in a ‘better way’ (which for some reason always turns out to be their way- I know weird right? ) , verges,  in my opinion on telling them how to be a better person.

I don’t view writing as something I do, it’s who I am. So with that in mind I’m always open to finding unique ways to tell a story, different styles of writing . And I’m careful that when that criticism wanders off into the weeds to treat it for what it is- grandstanding.

So I will smile and nod hold my tongue and remember I’ve been doing this for about 40 years and remember what my Grandfather used to say when  the Kid Gloves come off and the Everlast Gloves come out.

” There are always going to be some people who are harder to love then others. “

Life And The World Of Secret Handshakes

Daily Prompt

Litmus, Litmus on the Wall

If you had to come up with one question, the answer to which would determine whether or not you could be friends with a person you’ve just met, what would it be? What would the right answer be?

This question might be harsh, but if you’re going to write you can’t be afraid to be harsh, to kill off your favorite character if the story calls for it or to face some painful truths about yourself.

So I’m going to give this prompt a go:

No matter how I phrase it, the question is

Would you want to be Captain of the USS Enterprise

or

Battlestar ( Galactica )

I’m old school, and adventurous and I really do love the strange, the campy and the unique.

The Galactica  and it’s crew are streamlined, sexy, edgy, and dare I say desperate?

Well.

Yes I do say that.

I could see myself in the world of the Enterprise, but in the Galactica  world?

I’m not sleek, sexy or dangerous. I don’t have a great set of boobs and a High IQ. I do think I look good in a mini-skirt and I’m no genius but the smarts that I have I use well.

So I’m not saying I wouldn’t make friends with someone who sees themselves as Captain of The Galactica. But I can see myself hanging out with someone who can be great in a fight and has a bunch of weird and wonderful friends.

So Beam me up Scotty and let’s go for it.

Tain’t What You Do

 

Daily Prompt

Flash Talk

You’re about to enter a room full of strangers, where you will have exactly four minutes to tell a story that would convey who you really are. What’s your story?

When I was about six years old and we

were living in Seattle we had this great cherry tree in our back yard.

Now the sweetest cherries are on the highest branches, so I used to scoot up there and lay on a branch and for each one I picked to take down to my Mom I’d eat three.

The problem is I’d when I’d get up I’d fall and down I’d go. It’s safe to say for awhile there I fell out of trees more often then I’d actually climb down.  In fact, it took me awhile to learn that part. I think that for awhile I just assumed that was the way you got out of trees.

So be it a big tree or a small tree- a fruit tree or a maple tree I had no fear in climbing up and zero fear of falling down.

Luckily I never broke anything. I twisted my ankle a few times and I knocked the wind out of myself more times then I could count.

If you’ve never been able to draw a breath, you know it’s a pretty terrifying experience. But for me, I’d just wait and then I took a breath and I was good to go.

I guess you’d think I’d have developed a fear of heights or falling or I’d have developed some kind of morbid fear of trees.

But I didn’t.

So that little kid who always climbed to the top of a tree to get to the sweetest fruits or wanted to climb as high as she could because it was fun to watch the world turn from being big and intimidating to small and very far away…

became the woman who wasn’t afraid to be who she wants to be or to go where she wants to go.

And Just in case you’re wondering.

Yes.

That kid is still with me.

Ella Fitzgerald –

‘Tain’t What You Do (It’s the Way That You Do It) lyrics

When I was a kid about half past three
My ma said “Daughter, come here to me”
Said things may come, and things may go
But this is one thing you ought to know…
Oh ‘t ain’t what you do it’s the way that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the way that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the way that you do it
That’s what gets results
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the time that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the time that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the time that you do it
That’s what gets results
You can try hard
Don’t mean a thing
Take it easy, greasy
Then your jive will swing
Oh ‘t ain’t what you do it’s the place that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the time that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the way that you do it
That’s what gets results
You’ve learned your ABC’s
You’ve learned your DFG’s
But this is something you don’t learn in school
So get your hip boots on
And then you’ll carry on
But remember if you’re tryin’ too hard
It don’t mean a thing
Take it easy
(band members:
‘T ain’t what you bring it’s the way that you bring it
‘T ain’t what you swing it’s the way that you swing it
‘T ain’t what you sing)
– it’s the way that you sing it
(That’s what gets results)
(band members sing while Ella adlibs:
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the way that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the way that you do it
‘T ain’t what you do it’s the way that you do it
That’s what gets results
Re-bop!)

// //

Something Wicked

DAILY PROMPT

Autumn Leaves

Changing colors, dropping temperatures, pumpkin spice lattes: do these mainstays of Fall fill your heart with warmth — or with dread?

 

What’s there not to love about a dark and dreary night?

How could you not love a bitterly cold foggy morning? Or better yet a foggy night with dead dry leaves crunching under  foot as you make your way home to a fire, something warm to drink  and your favorite novel, ( or in my case for sure ) a little something by Mozart.

I do love the Spring, I love the green and the fresh cool air. It’s full of promise. It’s open and free.

But Autumn is secret and sly. It’s the bad boy in the leather jacket  who plays the guitar or rides the motorcycle- the one you’re Mom warned you about because guess what. She probably met the bad boy’s acquaintance before too.

When the Fall shows up  those flowers you planted seem to just disappear one night, the leaves on the trees turn slowly from gold to red and fall off one by one until boom! They’re on the ground and being carried away to wherever  it is winter lives.

This is the time of year  when take out our dark clothing and we put on  our hats and scarves and cover our faces. We make our way, wrapped in our shadow friendly clothing, through a world covered by low dark clouds, full of snow or rain. Now is the time we blend easily almost naturally  into the shadows and doesn’t that just make you feel…just a little wicked?

People are alive during the Spring and Summer.

But I believe during the Fall and into the Winter

Everyone wakes up.

It’s Alive!

• DAILY PROMPT

  Brevity Pulls

  “I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time.” — Blaise Pascal
  Where do you fall on the brevity/verbosity spectrum?

  When Stephen King was a little kid his grandfather said to his mother, “Why don’t you shut that kid up, Ruth. When Steven opens his mouth, all his guts fall out.“

  On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

  Stephen King

  

  When I was a kid my family used to stand there and watch me talk with the same look on their faces that they would have had, had our family dog walked up to them and asked what the time was.

  One of my cousins was more blunt. When I was about seven he was listening to go on about the possibility of the lady next door being a  a Mad Scientist like Dr Phibes  (mostly because she sort of looked like Vincent Price ) and he said,

  ” There should be some kind of law about what you use words for.”

  At the time I didn’t get it, but I was smart enough to know that doing anything against the law was bad so for what felt like days but what was more like seconds I watched what I said.

  Personally I love to hear people talk. Use as many words as you want.I think it’s great. I mean, if you want to open your mouth and your guts fall out I will listen and watch and hang on to every word.

  Verbal Vomit holds  no fear for me.

  To tell the truth,  I have been known to not just paint a picture with words,I have been known to take a spray can and tag an entire city block, just because it was the best way to get my story or point across.

  Most of the time, it was just to see how people reacted.

  I used to work in a funeral home and to do embalming.

  To this day at Thanksgiving I can’t reach into the turkey and put stuffing into it. My heart races, I break out in a sweat and I feel like I’m going to faint.

  And it goes without saying that I will not be eating turkey that day.

  I can stretch that story out to last so long I should have commercial breaks.

  So, I will tell that story and use as many words ( and big ones ) as possible if it’s right for the moment, other times I don’t go into great detail but I”ll tell the story differently.

  All you’ll get then  is, ” I don’t stuff  Turkeys. I used to. But I got traumatized at work and now I can’t stand to stick my hand into cold dead things.

  Conversations, storytelling, letter writing, they take on a life of their own. I say let them go where they want. It makes for better listening and reading.

  Make it an Epic conversation, make it a little one.

  Because.

  It’s…alive

Sincerely Yours

Writing 101: Be Brief

You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. 

 

The envelope light blue and the stamp was from Christmas- it had a smiling Santa with the standard red nose and chubby cheeks.

It was August and 85 degrees out, the sun was hot and Christmas seemed years away. So I picked the envelope with the Santa stamp up and turned it over.

It was addressed to MLT  at a post office box in Seattle.

The return address caught my eye

S. Stanwood

C/O Fenton Estates

Bridgewater,WA.

I know Fenton Estates. Most people around here do. It was the States First Mental Hospital and it closed about 20 years ago.

I pulled the letter out.

It was written in purple ink in small neat block letters.

Come Visit . I am so lonely.

Sincerely Yours,

Sienna

I turned the envelope back over and looked at the post mark.

It had been stamped a week ago Bridgewater, Washington.

I folded it, put it into the envelope and wondered-  who would reply if I wrote and said I’d be there soon.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

It’s Like We’ve Always Known Each Other

Delayed Contact

How would you get along with your sibling(s), parent(s), or any other person you’ve known for a long time — if you only met them for the first time today?

I think that what makes me and my sister so different from each other would make it possible for us to be friends if we just met.

Two things: My Uncle gave me the nickname ” Pebbles ” and my sister really is the efficient one who needs to laugh louder.

So this story is sort of based on us.

The bus wasn’t late, it was on time. It’s always on time it’s the passengers who are late.

Today  a woman with long dark hair, a limp and a red backpack was the last person to board the bus and it took her a minute to find her bus pass and scan it.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and made her way to the back of the bus and took a seat next to Adele.

Adele was always on time. She was never late. For anything.

The woman with the backpack was a few years older than Adele and when she slid into the seat next to Adele she looked over and smiled at her.

” Guess I held the bus up. ” she said.

” Well. Maybe a little. “

Adele looked at the backpack on the woman’s lap and saw a tag with the woman’s name on it. It was written in gold glitter pen and edged with hot pink marker.

” Pebbles Macleod”

Adele wondered if the backpack belonged to the woman’s daughter .

She must have been staring at the tag for a little too long because the woman volunteered” Oh yeah. That’s my name. My Mom was a big fan of the Flintstones cartoons. To bad she couldn’t have been a fan of a show that involved real humans. Then I could have had a normal name like Emma Peel or Barbarella. “

Again Pebbles laughed and Adele found herself laughing with her. She wasn’t sure why. The woman’s laugh was deep, heartfelt and a little too loud. Usually Adele didn’t bust a gut, but she thought she easily could with Pebbles.

” Have you taken this bus before? ” Adele- the same Adele who never spoke to anyone she rode the bus with.

” Oh. You know how it goes. I just grab whatever shows up.”

” Nah. I like to be home at the same time. Stuff to do for the family.”

That laugh again. ” Wow. If my boys waited for me to do stuff they’d be walking around naked and hungry. They’re teenagers. They can manage.”

Adele and Pebbles made small talk all the way to the Transit Center and when they got off the bus Adele was sorry to see Pebbles head towards another bus.

” Hey. So maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.” Adele said.

Pebbles swung around and smiled. She laughed. “I think so.”

Dream A Little Dream

Today’s Assignment: publish a post for your dream reader, and include a new-to-you element in it.

 Francie Paulo’s favorite writer in the entire world- for her entire life time – is the slighyly famous yet very  infamous Violet Hale.

Violet’s first book was published when she was seventeen. By thirty she was dead- executed for the murder of her husband’s lover.

Violet hung Clarissa in her husband’s law office and in turn the state Washington hung Violet. Violet found that amusing, which is the real reason she was laughing when the trap door snapped open below her feet.

Of course the witnesses at Violet’s execution thought she was crazy, which was slightly true. But that isn’t the reason, like I said, for her laughter.

Francie has Violet’s books- all slightly worn but well cared for books, all first editions in an old china hutch in her bedroom. The shelf and the books are the only thing in her room that could count as decoration.

She has a bed, a nightstand with a small ceramic lamp on top of it and that’s about it.

Francie leads a very simple life.

When Francie comes home at night she is welcomed by her cat and Violet Hale.

Nowadays she doesn’t pull her books down from a shelf. She does however have to pull her cat down from the shelf because it likes it up there.  Then after a very small meal she gets into bed and pulls out her phone (which never rings) and she goes straight to the internet and the site where Violet’s books are.

Francie never has a problem stepping into the worlds Violet created over thirty years ago. The problem is, sometimes Francie gets a little carried away when she’s there.

Like a few nights ago.

Francie was reading a particularly disturbing account about a Vampire and a school teacher and a meat grinder. ” Oh no.” Francie said bringing the phone up to her nose. ” She can’t mean to..”

Francie read on ” Oh. Oh. That’s just. No.”

Francie put her phone down for about a minute (which was a record of sorts for Francie). And then she picked it up back up and began to read.

Her face was lit only by the glow from the phone and her big dark eyes widened and then snapped shut. ” Why do I read this stuff before I go to sleep. WHY?”

But Francie read on.

She felt a sliver of sweat run down her spine. She wondered if it was really possible to make a  body snap in half like that. She hoped not. It was so…she put her phone down again. For less then a second.

And then Franice got to the part of the story with the Vampire and the embalming fluid and the holy water and she shrieked

‘ Yuck.Yuck. And Gross. Violet Hale you are the most twisted monster that ever walked the face of the earth…”

That’s when the light bulb in Violet’s room blew and she threw her phone against the wall and dove under her satin comforter.

And for good measure Francie Palo Born November 5th,  1864 died at the hands of a real vampire on July 10th and brought back to life again on July 17th of 1904 reached up and slammed her coffin lid shut.

” You’re a monster Violet Hale!  An Honest to goodness Monster! “

And Top Of The Mourning To You Too!

 

Ready, Set, Done

Today, write about anything — but you must write for exactly ten minutes, no more, no less.

Reflecting the biblical account of the Fall of Man, the snake-entwined figure epitmoizes evil and sensuality

I was in search of a Good Mourning Comic, but this picture from the artist Franz Von Stuck was the way to go.

The Seattle Times, in their review of Von Stuck’s work which was being shown at the Frye Museum in Seattle ( and I was lucky enough to see- Thanks Colleen!) was described as ” Spooky, Sinful and Seductive “

Why wouldn’t you know it.

Those are my favorite topics to write about.

In Von Stuck’s work I found it interesting that the less than holy subjects seemed to be more in charge of their enviroment then the more ” pure ” figures- even to the point to where the models representing all things “spooky and sinful and seductive”  seemed to be burning their way into Von Stuck’s and in turn the viewers eyes.

I like that in a monster.

I actually like it in people who are NOT monsters, but that doesn’t happen very often.

Isn’t it said that if someone looks into your eyes for more than twenty seconds they either love you or want to kill you? So I guess that’s why people thinking looking into anyone’s eyes is a sign of aggression. Maybe it is.

Maybe it is.

But when I need a little inspiration or when I just want to look at something that makes my brain and spirit sigh together in harmony I pull out the book ( they call it a catalog ) I bought at The Frye of Von Stuck’s work-

and enjoy.

 

( Click On The Picture To See More of Von Stuck’s Works)

Mr. Gill From Down The Street

Are you a good judge of other people’s happiness? Tell us about a time you were spot on despite external hints to the contrary (or, alternatively, about a time you were dead wrong).

When I was growing up on 52nd Ave just outside of Seattle, Felix Gill was a neighbor of mine.

Felix was, I thought then, a very old man, in reality he was probably in his mid-thirties. It was the gray hair that made him look old when I think about it, but you know how it is when you’re ten years old.

Anyone over the age of 18 is ancient.

The not really old Felix Gill  had short hair and wore short sleeved shirts and when he came home from work his billions of kids (I’d never seen such a big family before) would rush out to the driveway to meet him.

They always looked glad to see him, so were the neighbors. They’d wave when he drove by their houses and he always said “Ma’am and Sir “ when he talked to them.

Felix Gill was a solid guy, he didn’t drink or smoke or swear like the rest of the Dads on 52nd. He mowed his lawn and dutifully carried the groceries from his wife’s car into their home and not only did he take his garbage cans to the curb he brought them in right away and he hosed them down when they were empty.

I thought Felix was okay.

He coached his kids various sports teams and when he wasn’t doing that he was teaching one of his kids how to ride their bikes.

Felix was just Felix. He talked kind of slow and he was predictable. One of his kids told me his favorite tv show was the Six Million Dollar Man.

One day I was home from school early- I think I’d been to the dentist.

I decided to take my puppy out for a walk until my friends got home from school.

And then I saw Felix driving up the street.

I waved and he pulled over, stopped his car and rolled his window down.

“Hello Mr. Gill.”

“Hello.” he said pleasantly enough. “Say. I was going to ask. Is that  puppy yours?”

I nodded. “Yeah we just got him, his name is-”

“I don’t care what his name is Felix Gill said.  “Because if I see it outside- I don’t care if it’s in your yard or on the end of a leash,  I’ll blow it’s head off and I’ll do the same to you. Do you understand? Keep that dog out of my sight.”

And then Felix Gill drove the rest of the way home and got out of his car. He turned and waved to me and then walked into his house.

Just like always.

Two years later The Gill Family moved out of their house.

When they drove away I was standing on the corner with a few other kids and I saw Felix. He saw me and my now full grown dog.

The he rolled his window down,  he pointed his finger right at me like it was a gun and mimed pulling the trigger.

I don’t know what happened to Felix Gill, but about 20 years ago I saw one of his daughters on TV.

She was being charged with the murder of her stepdaughter.

Later we heard she had even killed the Stepdaughter’s dog at least a week before she murdered the girl.

Everyone in the neighborhood was shocked. A few people even cried. How could someone like that have been related to good old Felix Gill?

I wasn’t shocked. I just wondered though…

if it was his daughter who killed the dog.

I still wonder about that dog.

The Eighth Deadly Sin or Who Makes The Rules Around Here Anyway?

 

Post A Day Prompt: Eighth Deadly Sin

It was something to think about: If you could create the Eighth Deadly Sin what would it be?

I felt like a kid in a candy store.

People do so many idiotic things that you could nail them for. I mean where to start?

Okay. Deadly Sin should do what it says. If you commit this sin the consequences are going to be deadly. Plus you’re for sure going to Hell.

So if I could pick a new one I’d stay with the theme. It’d have to be something people do at least one of every single day : wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony.

Ok. Here it is.

Laughter.

If you laugh you go to Hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200.00

 No more laughing when your trying to belittle someone and that laugh, that smile is just one more knife for you to stick in their eye and twist. No more laughing at jokes or movies or happy memories.

And if you do. Boom. You’re in a cuddle puddle with demons. And not the cute ones like they have on the TV show Supernatural.

And if you think so- I’d agree: Yes indeed that is twisted and mean.

But isn’t that what the Deadlies are? Don’t we all get angry?  Love to eat too much ( Hello Christmas and Thanksgiving ) Aren’t there days when you just don’t want to wear anything but yesterday’s t-shirt and your favorite ripped up jeans or sweatpants? And on those days when you’re not fitting into your favorite outfit  don’t tell me you wouldn’t  sell a kidney to look like someone on tv.

It’s okay. We’ve all been there.

Seriously. Who decided to make being human not just a sin, but a deadly one?

But this is my blog and my post and my response to the prompt and I have made Laughter The Eighth Deadly Sin.

You just laughed at that didn’t you?

Uh Oh. Uh Oh For You To The Max.

Me And The Toxic Baby

 

If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?

A few years ago my husband sent me a series of pictures he took  around New Orleans.

Most of them were tourist shots- the St. Louis cathedral, his lunch, a  Voodoo shop where you’re not supposed to take pictures ( he sent me a picture of the sign ).

And one was a picture of a bottle.

And the bottle was full of something called a Toxic Baby.

I was fascinated with that picture. I kept looking at it. Wondering about it.

I had no interest in what was inside of the bottle- I just liked the name

Toxic Baby.

So a few months later I booked a flight to New Orleans ( just in time For Halloween ) and went in search of the Toxic Baby.

When I got to New Orleans I didn’t google Toxic Baby. I didn’t ask my husband where I could find it. I just spent the week haunting the French Quarter.

I hung out at the  Saint Louis Cemetery on Basin Street, where among a lot of other history I learned you might not want to wear flip flops because what was once inside of those crypts in some cases ended up outside of the crypts and bone looks like sand when it gets smooshed and you might not want that stuff stuck between your toes.

And I also learned that when a cab, a horse-drawn cab and bicycle cab meet in an intersection and none of them can decide who has the right of way you can learn about a hundred new ways to use over used swear words.

Just in case you’re curious- the end the horse-drawn cab will win because they have whips.

If you want your Tarot cards read you can get it done right to the left or right of the cathedral doors almost on the steps themselves.

But not in front of the Cathedral itself.

You can also go to confession and end up in a bar in less then twenty steps.

I thought that was hilarious.

So I got distracted. I was there to look for the Toxic Baby and I had made no effort to even ask about it.

On my last day in New Orleans I decided to visit the Cathedral one more time ( it seemed like the right thing to do after all the time I spent in the cemetery)  and as I walked out I turned the corner of St Louis Cathedral and I found myself a few doors down from the  Pirates Alley Cafe.

Really? Pirates went to Cafe’s? Oh why not. I thought. Pirates have to eat to right?

I decided to go on in.

 None of the customers  were dressed up like Pirates that day but something about those dark walls, that long worn wooden bar and brick walls made you feel like you were a pirate.

So I head up to the bar-and there it was.

Waiting for me.

The Toxic Baby.

I took a picture of the bottle. I walked from side to side and took it in- the simple label and the promise that the drink tasted worse than it looked.

I found it, I thought.

I found the thing that brought me from Washington state all alone during Halloween.

It called to me and I went. Just because I like the way something sounded.

I remember standing there looking up at the ceiling and wondering how many other people ended up so far away from home because they liked the way something sounded.

Toxic Baby.

It’s a wicked tasting drink I’ve been told. I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink.

It was two years ago that I ended up in search of and finding The Toxic Baby.

I hung out in a graveyard. I explored VooDoo shops and toured a VooDoo museum that was housed in an actual house. I wandered around the French Quarter and ate pizza by the slice and wrote stories and took pictures and did I mention I hung out in the cemetery a lot?

I’m a suburban housewife  from a small suburban town and that  year some of my friends  to Disney World, some went on cruises others ended up in Hawaii.

I ended up in New Orleans staring at a bottle of The Toxic Baby.

And if I could get on a plane now and go back tonight-

I would.