Weekend Writing Warriors 8/3

Weekend Writing Warriors / #8 Sunday

08/03/14

http://www.wewriwa.com

Richard Peck said that he likes to end a novel where he started. Although I didn't quite do that, this passage is close to the end of my YA manuscript. Ben finds himself back in class talking about the robber barons, just like the very first sentence of BEING BENITO CARLEFFA, which I posted last week. Although this is not eight lines, some of the sentences are short and quick, so I decided to include the entire scene. 

Although just about every hand in the room is up, except Ben's, the teacher calls on him and asks, "Who were the robber barons?"

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

     “Famous dead guys who ripped dudes off to get rich,” I said, but then blurted, “No. They aren’t all dead.”

     “Who are you talking about, Ben? Are we turning class into a political discussion?” Ms. Link smiled as if she were waiting for her compare and contrast moment. She’d always said, “History repeats itself” and now she was hoping I’d prove it true. 

     I shook my head, but she refused to move to another student. 

     “Can I use the bathroom?”

     “You may after you answer my question.”

     I stood and dragged my feet to the door. Before heading out, I grit my teeth and said, “My father.” 

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

#WW #AtoZ : Nice Date

Remember prom night in high school? 
You wore your best to a high class restaurant. 
Then, you texted about it throughout dinner!

Silly Sunday: School Answering Machine

Here's a message that clearly tells it like it is!

#GBE2: The Beautiful Legs Contest

Is this a good one?

As a mere elementary student, I was chosen from the audience at a high school carnival to decide which guy had the most beautiful legs. A paper screen covered their faces and torsos while I walked across the stage looking for a great pair of legs. To be honest, I didn't have a clue. What are good legs supposed to look like to someone with an age still in the single digits? Finally, I pressed my finger against some guy's knee and he reveled in his victory.

Today, I'm still not sure what makes a great pair of guy legs. I'm more of a face girl, maybe one who takes notice of a cute butt, but legs never did anything for me. So at a young age I learned that the secret to judging is to set a criteria. I still don't have one, so I'm asking for your help in case anyone else ever asks me to judge beautiful legs.

What makes male legs beautiful?

I'm leaving you with a funny leg clip because nothing is beautiful about a possessed leg!

I don't know why I still ask people to push the Picket Fence button, but go ahead if you want to.

Lost and Found #GBE2

#3 = Lost and Found

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, perhaps in the year 15 BC (before children), my mind started to gradually slip away. It wasn't anything dramatic like space aliens ringing the doorbell and asking for brain samples, but rather a slow deterioration of sanity.

Maybe it started in middle school when the dorks teased me for wearing my sister's powder blue, handi-me-down gym uniform instead of the sexy red ones on sale at school. With the red garbs, one could  turn them around backwards and slide the zipper down low. Ms. "McFeel," the questionable PE teacher didn't seem to mind as long as we wore a PE uniform and took our showers after class. If not the uniforms, perhaps the brain drain came when I was brave stupid enough to get on stage in a flapper outfit and dance the Charleston with Steve Noonan in front of the laughing student body.

"What was everyone laughing at?" I later asked a friend.

"Your costumes," she said.

Yeah, right! I was almost naive enough to buy it. Junior High School definitely chipped a good 10% of mind out of my clueless head.

High school must have taken some more. Shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I got my driver's license and proudly drove into the car next to me in a snowy parking lot. Okay, I wasn't proud of hitting the car (multiple times when the honkers made me panic), but I was proud of the first time being alone in the car, until . . .

Being a mindless teen, I stuck a note about the size of a bobby pin on the damaged car's windshield wiper and crawled home to tell my dad. He took it well. In fact, he took it a lot better than the lady I hit. For the next year, my parents begged and pleaded me to take the car out alone, but by then about 20% of mind went missing, so no can do. I've only been in one other mild fender bender in over thirty years of driving daily, so maybe I found five percent between then and now.

College took more due to a little bit of drinking at parties. Alcohol has been scientifically proven to kill brain cells, so go ahead and remove the five percent I'd found plus 5% more and now I'm down to 75% sanity. Until my boyfriend said, "Will you marry me and live in Memphis?"

Marrying him was actually a fabulous idea, but I question my mental state when I said,"Yes to Memphis." If that ain't love, I don't know what is. Take away another 5% for moving to Memphis and becoming a teacher. A teacher? Did I say, "5%?" Better make that 5% for moving to Memphis and 25% for becoming a teacher. What am I down to now? 45%? Being able to do basic math means I have a little bit of mind left add 5%, but then I got pregnant. Three times. Three children.

Some comedian, can't remember who, once said we lose half of our minds with each child born. That would put me far into the negative category. Just because I scratched my head and hopped like a monkey to get my babies to smile does not mean I've lost my mind? I mean, doesn't everyone do that?

Since this challenge is called "Lost and Found," I must end with the story about how I got it all back. We put the baby on a bus this morning and sent her off to be a camp counselor for the summer. The middle one comes home in five days and stays for a few weeks, but come fall we will be official empty nesters. If that doesn't restore my mind, nothing will!



If you like my post, please click the white picket fence or the snippet. Thanks!