#Writer's Post: An Electrifying Journey in 250 Words

Long ago when we were sparkless neutrons, Volta, Franklin, and others experimented with my brothers, sisters, and me in their quest for understanding. Many, however, refused to relate to our story as they turned up their lethargic noses at our science. For youngsters take us for granted as their eyes gloss over when teachers discuss what defines our very existence.

My electrifying journey began with me swimming in a gigantic can of chemicals. What was even worse than drowning in sludge was not knowing if I’d have a positive or negative experience. I merely floated between the two terminals and basked in a strong negative energy. 

I wanted to sink to the bottom of the battery, but a magnetic pull wouldn't allow it. With a click from above, a wire appeared and forced me to float toward the positive side of the terminal. 

It connected me to my polar opposite and ZAP! I got sucked through the wire. Floating! Zinging! Charged with life! I performed exhilarating back flips as I flowed along a magnetic field. Reaching the end of the journey, I dove into the light--and we were one. Once electricity radiated through my aroused nucleus, I found my true purpose and tasted life as never before. 

I am the glow that attracts and zaps pesky insects. The gleam that keeps one from bumping knees as would have happened when walking through darkness. I am, I was, I'll always be electricity.

Writer's Post: Ethos, Pathos, Logos

Just last week, I read about a fifth grade boy who decided to defy his teacher by calling a pen a "Frindle." This is the typical read for me, not too risky in the big picture but such a good book. This week, I read something a bit different. Oh, my. 

Perhaps the party conversation made me curious, or maybe it's the #1 on The New York Times Best Seller list that caught my attention. Could I have been drawn to the book because it was banned in multiple book stores? The final truth: I read it. 

*blush*

This week's Writer's Post topic is Ethos, Pathos, Logos which means, I'm supposed to convince you to read this book. I'm not going to.  Half of you would call it trash and be mad at me for leading you down this dark path. If you do read it, you might not want to admit. It's downright naughty.

Ethos - You've got to wonder about the knowledge of the author. Since this is a world I will never enter, I'll just have to trust her as she takes me through my vicarious thrill. I imagine writing a story like this would be even more embarrassing than reading one.

Pathos - Appeals to the emotions? Oh yeah. Take one super hot male and combine him with a twisted mind, and you've appealed to the emotions. The book contains fear for the heroine as well as a sick curiosity for what his next "room of pain" trick will be. Oh, and did I mention: Christian Grey is extremely hot.  ; )

Logos - It was on sale for $10 at Costco when I passed the dirty little novel that has this country talking. It's summer vacation, and I have plenty of time to read, so why not?

Okay, I confess. I'm ready for the sequel.

*blush*  *blush*  *blush*

I've just got to know why Christian is so weird and what he's going to do to win Ana after he royally messed up. With my G rated life, this vicarious venture turns me fifty shades of red. What's it about you ask? Oh, no. I'm not going into detail on my innocent little blog. You'll just have to read it yourself . . . but don't say I didn't warn you.


On another note, the movie rights have been sold. The success or failure of the movie is all about picking the best man to play Christian. The women have got to be absolutely swooning over him or nothing is going to work. Who do you vote for?

Or maybe you prefer one of these choices.

Sorry, but the best looking man is not up for the part, and is a little older than 27. Plus, he's married to me, so you can't swoon over him.

Writer's Post: Reflection Fail

Last night when driving home from dinner, my husband and I spotted Venus and Jupiter glowing low in the sky due to the sun's reflection upon them.

When the sun shines on me, I only tan or burn. Never have I glowed like a planet or Edward Cullen. I wonder if our planet would shine like a star if we were to look at it from Venus or Jupiter.

Since the planets looked so beautiful, I ventured outside with my camera phone. Here is the picture I took of the planets... just for you.

REFLECTION FAIL

Writer's Post: Censorship

In a previous post, I mentioned that I didn't want folks telling me what religion to follow. Along the same vein, don't tell me what books to read, what music to listen to, nor what shows to watch. Part of being an American is having the freedom not to have someone else censor my life.

But what's really wrong with censorship is the fact that your mind might fill in the blanks with a whole new meaning. Watch this censored version of The Count.

Or look at part of this speech that I've shortened and censored just for you.

You have been reading about a bad *%^ I got. I have been in *#% and have received #$* from @*&. Which of you wouldn’t consider it the highlight of his life just to #$@ with *%^ for even one #$@?  

              Ooooo wouldn't you love to #$@ with #$@? Just ask Lou Gehrig.

I leave you with one more clip. Enjoy.

Writer's Post: Out With The Old & In With The New

I love Back to the Future movies. Remember when Doc Brown visited thirty years into the future - 2015 - three years from now? He got a total blood and cell replacement and looked just like the Doc Brown of 1985. I'm still searching for that transplant clinic, along with those hover boards, so I can be out with the old and in with the new.

Back to the Future II

Instead, I look thirty years older than I did in 1982... and so does Christopher Lloyd. So if we can't throw out our tired bodies and get new ones, what are we supposed to do? Yeah, I know diet and exercise. I could grow flowers with that broken promise.

Sometimes old is special. After all, I was sorry to see my old dog die, even though I am now in love with an energetic young one. I have my favorite old coffee mugs, and I like old jeans rather than buying new ones made to look old. Why must we always say, "Out with the old and in with the new" come New Year's? Can't we just cuddle up in our old pjs with our old dogs on our saggy laps?

Besides, who says new is better? I have old kids and I'd keep them over your crying infants any day of the week! So out with the old and in with the new– :p. Unless you can find me Doc Brown's blood and cell transfer clinic, I'm not interested.

Writer's Post: Priorities and My Mole

A Beauty Mark!

Pain or surgery 
   When faced with back pain, I saw three docs in hopes one would say, "No surgery needed." Finally, I had the operation, but it was different with my mole. Dr. Dewane wanted it in a jar, so I sat on the surgeon's table.  
   "It's harmless," the surgeon said. 
   "Bye." I hopped off the table.

Red, golden, or dark brown 
   When the price difference is $8 vs. $80, I'll color my own hair; but, it varies from bottle to bottle. Once the hair flamed bright red and matched my face. You get what you pay for. My mole is brown.

Ignorance or bliss 
   The infamous they say, "Ignorance is bliss," but I'd rather be informed. The Occupy Wall Street message needs to be told. Corporations have avoided paying taxes by buying politicians to vote their passions; but this is a humor blog, and that isn't funny. The mole continues to occupy my leg.

Orange juice or something else 
   I grew up drinking orange juice, but it's my least favorite type of juice. I love oranges but drinking its juice doesn't turn me on. I also grew up with a mole on my right calf. It's been there longer than many of my readers have been alive.

Red or white 
   I've never been much of a wine drinker but if given the choice, I'll always choose white--less chance of someone noticing it when I spill it on my shirt. Also, if I were to spill red wine on my mole, someone might mistake it for blood and make me remove it.

Ice cream or frozen yogurt 
   I don't notice a difference. People insist that yogurt is better for you. I like it all the same and will eat whatever. I also like my mole, and I'm not letting some knife holder cut it out, even if he offered me a cold treat.

Terror or comedy films 
   If you've read my blog, you know the answer to this one. For anyone new here, feel free to look around. I dare you not to laugh! No my mole is NOT scary and most posts are not as lame as this one.

Ick another I 
   Have you ever noticed when writing acrostic poems, you always have two of the letter that stumps you? Is that Murphy's Law? I can't even think of an I for the mole because it's not icky.

Elves or dwarfs
   I've never been into fantasy, although I confess, I enjoyed Tolkien's The Hobbit. I got hooked in chapter five when I read, "What has it got in its pocketes?" Usually mine contain a dirty Kleenex; but, it's not dirty from the mole. It's NEVER leaked fluid!

Shot or the flu 
   If you'd have asked me thirty years ago, I would've chosen the flu. Now, I've grown up and take shots like a big girl. I once tore out of a doctor's office to avoid a shot. I was only wearing underwear while multiple nurses chased me.What did they expect from a little seventeen-year-old girl? ☺ Of course when they tried to remove my mole, I ran too.

Writer's Post: Ghosts of Halloweens Past

Once upon a Halloween, I was a kid who didn't need parents to escort me from door to door, nor did I wear expensive store-bought costumes. After someone brought me a poncho from Mexico, I was a Mexican Hat Dancer for three years. Of course being a hat dancer meant planning a routine because someone would always ask me for a trick. 

Get it? "Trick or Treat." In the St. Louis of the 1960s that expression meant exactly what it said. Kids rang the doorbell, said "Trick or Treat," and gave the homeowner a choice: Give candy immediately or ask for a trick. As a Mexican Hat Dancer, I did a dance. In other years, I wandered the neighborhood with a joke to tell. 

When I mention this tradition around Memphis, people look at me cross-eyed. That's not the only Halloween culture clash from moving 300 miles south. The first time my husband left to take our son trick-or-treating, he came home and asked, "Did you give out a candy?"

My kids: Halloween 1995

I said, "Sure. I gave out lots of candy. One to this kid, another to that."

He said, "But did you give out a candy?"

I hadn't a clue that he was trying to find out whether or not we had candy left. Go figure. We've yet to give out a candy, except for the year that the neighbors threw a huge party with gazillion kids, but didn't tell anyone they were coming.

Another Halloween memory of mine was Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts. Every year, David's mom made homemade donuts that she'd give to all the children. I never ate one. 

Kids can be quite literal, and that I was when Mom always said, "Never eat anything unwrapped." So year after year I'd skip those sweet smelling snacks that all the kids would go out of their way for. If I could go back in time, I'd eat one of her donuts on Halloween; but, it's not all bad. The memory of skipping donuts inspired my latest novel. I wonder if this manuscript would even exist if I'd eaten a donut. I also wonder if her son, who grew up to be a chef, bakes these donuts on Halloween. If he does, I just might have to go to St. Louis and ring his bell.

The Writer's Post: Walking Away

Walking away is normally not tough; but tonight, I just don't think I can manage it. See, several weeks ago, I think I did something to my leg in Mr. Mario's elementary school running group. The PE teacher had us hopping over cones. This is easy peasy for nine and ten year olds but not for old ladies like me. After that workout, the area behind my knee started to ache.

Mr. Mario said, "It sounds like your hamstring."
I told him, "Can't be. I'm Jewish, and Jews don't eat ham."
He didn't buy it.

I've lived with mild pain for almost a month, but it hasn't been too bad; so I've continued running. Sometimes it hurts when I start, other times when I'm in motion, but always after a good run. On Saturday, I ran five miles and felt it after mile four.

Today Mr. Mario had us sprinting the length and width of a soccer field then resting for a minute and a half before going at it again. Turns out some of those little turkeys have been making fun of my great running talent. They must be jealous because I am consistently last, and they haven't learned how to be consistent runners.

It's okay. I have tough skin, but my porkstring, not so much. I guess instead of walking away, I'll have to limp… and you expected a deeply emotional post about "Walking Away?" Pffft.

 Lashana Tova to all my Jewish friends. I'll be out of commission (and the refrigerator) for a good part of the week-end, so I'll catch you later.

Writer's Post: The Road Block to Donuts

Here I am once again facing my biggest road block when I should be working on Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts. Will, my ten year old character, wants to be invited to the weekly donut party at Harrison Zimmerman's house, but to get an invite, he must be part of the in-crowd. For a kid like Wimpy Will, this could happen–like never.

But life changes when along comes Slater, a clever fifth grader with a pointy Mohawk on top of his rounded head. Slater is eager to teach Will how to transform into Knob, the cool tough soldier; but in order to succeed, Will must pass several tests.

He certainly could do this if I'd spend more time on the novel and less time on the blog! So what do you think is my biggest road block?

Below is my opening couple of paragraphs. The first draft manuscript is almost totally complete, but it feels like a young dog: bony and lanky. I need to go back and add some meat.

Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts

by

Yours Truly

            Every Friday after school, Harrison Zimmerman invited popular boys over for a stupid end-of-the-week celebration. His mom would fry up homemade donuts dipped in thick chocolate sauce. My mouth watered as we passed his house and I breathed in the scent of those gooey pieces of dough.   

Mom usually fell into a tantrum at the thought of me swallowing anything slightly junky. She fussed over eating healthy as if my gut would explode if the tiniest bit of sugar or grease tickled my insides. But the real reason I’d never eaten the donuts: Harrison had never invited me. Actually, no one had ever asked me to go anywhere.

Things were about to change.… if my author will get off the internet already. I'm a desperate boy in need of serious help! ARGGGHHH!

 

Writer's Post: Serenity

For this week's Writer's Post, Jenn has posted the above picture and asked us to use the word "serenity" in our blogs.

Serenity - The state of being calm, peaceful, and untroubled.

This is just the case for bikes! Just ask my brother and sister about French Lick, Indiana, and they'll tell you how serene bike riding is. Unfortunately, they veered onto the rocky horse trail instead of the bike path, which was fine until a rider yelled, "Giddy Up." A broken collar bone for bro and cast-covered leg for sis, and we were headed home. Daggumit! They cut our vacation short. So in their honor, here's their favorite song–NOT.

A few years later, I learned how to ride a bike and almost lost my life too. Remember, bike riding equals serenity. While zooming down a hill, I peddled at high speed. Upon reaching bottom, I found myself rolling head first into a car. Right when I was ready to collide (without a helmet since we didn't know any better back then), some invisible person grabbed my bike handles and steered me out of the way. I guess I wasn't meant to die at age seven.

As an adult, I bought a ten-speed racing bike and rode back into the serene experience of bike riding. I even competed in several triathelons. After all, there is nothing like the serene feel of skirting past traffic on busy streets. Not to mention the butt aches.

Recently, the only thing serene is the bike itself. It's gathering dust in our garage. Perhaps it's time to dust off the bike, fill the tires, and go for a "serene" bike ride.

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The Writers' Post: Salient

Fire and Ice

This week's Writers' Post blog hop is a picture prompt with the word "salient."

sa·li·ent

projecting or pointing outward

leaping or jumping

I guess this picture says it all because the flaming eyeball seems to leap out of the frozen face around it. Could you imagine being that dude? I guess you'd ice your eye while wrapping your face in a heating pad. 

But wait, is that a cowboy in the pupil? What's he doing, preparing the branding iron? If the dude ain't blind yet, he will be by the time Mr. Yippy Hi Yay gets finished with him. 

So what's a burning/freezing face to do? He could go to the emergency room, but I have a feeling the docs ain't seen nothing like that. If he's not in too much pain, he could join the circus and show off his unique situation. If I were him, I think I'd charge for a look. Any magazines interested in writing a story about a dude with a flaming eyeball leaping from a frozen face? Salient. Go Fish!

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Silent Moments: A Guide

This week on Writers' Post we've been asked to blog about silent moments. I'm sure we will read many beautifully heartfelt sentiments about those who are touched beyond words. This is not one of those. Below is advice for the socially challenged.

The Rhetorical Question
Remember when in the heat of a problem your mother or teacher asked you, "Do you think I'm stupid?" Trust me. It's best to provide a silent moment after these questions.

Too Much Information (alias TMI)
"Sorry I'm late but the dog got sick. He blah, blah, blah on the blah, blah, blah. This one was really gross! It looked like blah, blah, yackity, yack." Oh please just shut up. People don't care to know the inner workings of your body or that of your baby's.

To the Policeman
When the arresting officer says, "You have the right to remain silent," take his advice. It will do you no good to say, "I ain't been drinkin' occifer."

And of course I remember my son's freshman year of high school when he spent the night at the next door neighbors house--a boy his age. Although we required our kids to keep a curfew (at least the unfortunate first born child), our neighbor was much looser with the rules.

On several occasions, my husband would point out an older teen who would park his car at the end of the cove yet remain in it. Noting this suspicious activity, hubby would hang by the window and wait. Eventually the car would move forward and the two curfew breakers would step outside. This was my husband's cue to confront the boys right before they slipped into the car . . . at midnight of course. On one occasion the friend turned to my son and said, "I told you we should have waited longer!"

Aaaah, silent moments. They are the safety nets under the trapeze of life.

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