Six Sentence Sunday

Ouch!

It's been over a month since I've participated in Six Sentence Sunday, but I'm glad to be back with an excerpt from my Work in Progress (WIP), Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts. Knob has just met his friend Slater's mom for the first time, and he's not used to adults playing tricks.

Slater’s mom pulled a chisel-shaped knife out of an antique cabinet's top drawer and leaned her head back. With the precision of a surgeon, she gently slid the blade downward until it disappeared into her throat. Next she thrust it out with one gigantic swing. Blood covered the blade while red liquid filled her mouth. Her eyes rounded as her lips curved into a smug smile. She winked at me! 

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Fireworks

Happy Independence Day week-end! It's been 235 years since our country was founded and the most popular American fourth of July tradition is fireworks. Many of us gather around to see shows from the ground, but have you ever wondered what fireworks look like from an airplane? I imagined bright bouquets of color filling up the window, but that's not it at all.

Years ago, my husband pointed out the window of an airplane and said, "Look. Fireworks."

"Where?" I asked.

After scanning the skies, I finally spotted a quarter shaped explosion, followed by several other mini light displays. Sure, it was cool but not what I expected. In reality, planes fly much higher than exploding fireworks, so just like everything else from above, the light display shrunk.

Even with today's technology, I've never seen a film or still photo that captures the true beauty of fireworks, but here's a short clip which I enjoyed.

Mom's Revenge

For those who remember my last week's Wordless Wednesday post, Jo suggested I do the same to my kids' pictures. However, I didn't have to do much, they'd already done it to themselves.

Miami, Florida 1949

We've all heard of visits from spirits. This actually happened in my family, and here's photographic proof. My youngest daughter accompanied my parents on their honeymoon in 1949!

Super Dan

The Jolly Green Giant and Smurfs have nothing on this character. Watch Daniel flex his muscles for the blue ray. When he was in preschool, I used to pin pillowcases to his back so he could run around saving the world. Not much has changed.

Six Eyes

Sweet Judy would never alter her Mom's picture and had nothing to do with last week's post, but I wouldn't want her to feel left out, so here is six eyes--no multiple personality disorder here.

The Best Brand of Fertilizer - #GBE2

What's That?

This week's GBE 2 prompt is a picture. Unfortunately, this plant is something I've never seen thriving in our yard. My husband and I tried to plant one and fertilized it with advanced college degrees. You know how it goes:  BS = bull sh*t; MS = more sh*t; PhD = piled higher and deeper. I guess we didn't add enough manure to the plant because it didn't bear fruit for long.

Maybe my degrees were all wrong. I received a BHS instead of the standard BS. It stands for Bachelor of Health Science which is a joke because I never had the clinical ear to be a speech therapist and listen to kids say, "Ew, ew, er." As for the Audiology part, I dropped it after noticing the people who worked hard for more sh*t degrees only to change jobs before thirty. You can only push buttons for so long.

So with the desire to make loads and loads of money, I pursued a more sh*t degree in Special Education. Our high pay is the reason the economy is so messed up. Just ask any of those politicians who are pushing anti-teacher bills. Since my career wasn't bearing fruit on the money tree, I could only hope the husband bought the right brand of fertilizer.

He holds three degrees. After receiving his BS, he went on to pile it higher and deeper, but lawyers do it wrong. After the doctor of jurisprudence, he added more sh*t. The tree started to bear fruit, but so did we. Three little money suckers swung from the tree's branches and turned it into firewood.

Now the monkeys are trying to add fertilizer to their own trees. Hopefully they're buying the right brand of manure at their institutes of higher education! I know the son did. A degree in Economics landed him an instant job straight out of college.

Spilling Guts

Should I or Shouldn't I?

Several bloggers discussed whether or not to spill ones guts out in posts. I say, "No." It's a messy business that will result in me tripping and pulling five feet of intestinal material out of my body. Of course with that, I could have a fine jump rope but probably wouldn't feel like skipping. I mean who wants to jump rope with your guts sticking out? Plus while everything's open, I could pull out excess fat. They call that a tummy tuck, but this would be a homemade one that wouldn't cost ten-thousand dollars. All I'd have to do is spill my guts, pull out fat, then shove the intestines back in. I'd probably lose forty pounds, so on second thought--okay. Maybe we should spill our guts out after all. But not in front of the computer because if one bleeds on the keyboard the computer might crash!

Wordless Wednesday - Kids & Computers

This is what happens when your kids get a hold of your photo and an art program on a computer.

GBE2: First Love

At our wedding reception, my brother warned my husband to be wary about what I did to my first love. I tore my love into pieces then cried at the departure, but it wasn't totally my fault. Being the youngest of four, I tended to listen to the bad advice of older siblings. He who shall not be named told me to rip my love so that I could spread its joy around and have plenty.

Micky the Monkey

Waaaa! Blanky. **sniff** I tore it into multiple pieces then rummaged through the scraps for one smidgen large enough to rub against my nose as I sucked my thumb. That was a dirty trick to play on an unsuspecting toddler, but not to worry.

My mom paid $2 for a stuffed monkey at the grocery store, and he replaced my torn blanky. I named him Micky after Micky Dolenz from the Monkees because Micky was so cute! He also made me laugh as he banged his drums and did silly stuff on TV. Everyone else was in love with Davy Jones, not me. I liked Micky.

I also had a little crush on Robin from the Batman show . . . until he took off his mask. :p . . .  He was ugly underneath, so it was time to forget about television and focus on real boys.

Happy Father's Day Wherever You Are

Theodore Paull

On Father's Day I'm reminded of my dad and our thirty-one years together. I used to complain about how unfair it was to have had so little time with him, but after chatting with various people about their childhoods, I stopped. I'd rather have had thirty-one years with mine than sixty-two with yours. Hopefully your dad was great too, but I've heard multiple stories about abusive fathers. This is not one of them!

Although he never hit me, he could snap me into line with a look  for it was critical not to disappoint him. Unlike most children today, I had fear mixed with respect when it came to my father. When I became a parent, he told me, "Don't ever hit your children, but don't ever let them think you won't." Yep. He had me fooled.

Dad had a funny side too. Having grown up during the depression era, no one spent money on luxuries such as getting one's teeth straightened; so, Dad enjoyed making us laugh by squinting his eyes and showing his skinny little teeth with spaces between each one. Still, I couldn't wait for my handsome daddy to come home each night. My siblings and I listened for the groan of the garage door followed by a steady bump, bump, bump up the staircase. We'd charge out of bed to hug Dad who would remove his sports coat and replace it with his worn, blue terrycloth robe. I loved when Dad put me in bed because he'd tuck me in with a series of geeks, ya it was goofy but so was Dad at times. Although my kids' memories of my father are sketchy or absent, they know what geeking is all about.

He hated this picture but I love it!

Dad loved to tell pop corn, such as how his classmates nicknamed him Tadpole. A teacher with a thick German accent called attendance: Ted Paull came out sounding like tadpole, and the name stuck. Dad had his own nickname for me BooBoo, and my sibs had their fun with theories of where that name came from.

A cornier pop corn came from Dad's boyhood walk to school down Flora Place. Every morning the neighbors would lean out their windows and sing, "Theodora don't spit on the flora." Fertilize the lawn with that story, which always sounded best coming from Dad.

When an earthquake shook our house, Dad hollered, "Florence [my mother]! Quit jumping around up there!" But don't think he didn't care deeply for her. He showed his love and devotion through constant care for Mom when she became ill. He quit working and socializing to be by her bedside while she lay unconscious in an Iowa hospital. Refusing to leave her side, his stress became evident when he lost control of his Diabetes. Mom's health improved while Dad died of "total system failure" in 1993.

I miss my daddy on Father's Day and every day, but I have been blessed to have married a kind man who is much like my dad.

Meet Knob

Jeannie Campbell is hosting a blog hop and contest about getting to know our characters. So please meet the main character of my Work in Progress. Then you may buzz over to her site and meet other fictional people. How To Connect With Your MC


Knob's formal name is William Donald Donellson, but he received the nick name of Knob after Slater announced that his shaved hair made his head look like a door knob. Knob is a respectable name for an amazing, tough soldier. Unfortunately as the butt of the fifth grade, Wimpy Will has never felt like a tough anything.

Thanks for the interview. I'll answer the questions as best I can because I always do.

Question 1: What is your greatest fear? 

Gee, that's a tough one because I'm scared of everything. My brother died from falling off a bicycle and bleeding to death. I know, it sounds weird, but he had a disease called hemophilia and the doctors couldn't save him. Although I don't have the disease, you'd think I did by the way my mom hovers over me. I guess I'm scared of getting it. They say it's hereditary, so what happens if one day I catch hemophilia, start bleeding, and can't stop it?

Question 2: What is your biggest accomplishment?

I'm smart. Two years ago I won my age group in The Under the Arch Chess Tournament. I almost won again last year but a girl named Haley beat me. She's the only one who can beat me at chess, and I'm a little knock kneed at the thought of going up against her this year in the ten-year-old's category. Okay, I confess, I kinda like her, so scratch out my answer to question one. I'm most afraid of Haley--which is probably why I lost the tournament.

 

Question 3: What is your biggest regret?

I regret letting Randy bug me all the time in class. He always bullies me, but I've never stopped him because I'm kinda chicken. If I tell him to leave me alone, he might punch me, make me bleed, and do it in front of Haley. So on second thought, I guess I'm most afraid of Randy Butcher.

You didn't ask me what's been bugging me, but I'm going to tell you anyway. No one has gotten to meet me because my author has not gotten my story into query shape. It needs a lot of revisions. Here's the start of my story, MRS. ZIMMERMAN'S DONUTS by Joyce Paull Lansky. If you like it, tell your agent or editor friend about her because I want to be famous. Err, maybe not. It might be scary.

Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts

            Every Friday after school, Harrison Zimmerman invited popular boys—not me, over for a stupid end-of-the-week celebration. His mom, the best chef in St. Louis County and co-founder of Zimmerman’s bakery, would fry up homemade donuts dipped in thick chocolate sauce. My mouth watered as we drove down Aberdeen Avenue and I breathed in the scent of those gooey pieces on a bed of powdered sugar.            

By the age of ten most guys had wolfed down seven-dozen pastries or more, but I’d never even tasted Mrs. Zimmerman’s donuts. I convinced myself that it was because my mom would’ve fallen into a tantrum at the thought of me swallowing anything slightly junky. She usually made a fuss 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—the fact that bothered me even more than Mom’s obsession over food, cleanliness, and safety—was that Harrison had never asked me to come to his stupid party. Actually, no one had ever invited me to go anywhere; but things were about to change.
  

That's what's been bugging me, but it's okay. Slater moved to town,

and he's going to help me be cool. See ya later.   ❧ Knob

                                                                

Wordless Wednesday - Cake in the Rain

Buy One At Kroger!

Someone left the cake out in the rain. I don't think that I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again. Oh, noooooooo!

No drama here! Please; it's just dessert.

Keep Your Pants Dry --CONTROL #GBE2

Control

For wee-little tots control means keeping your pants dry all day long, holding your temper when someone grabs your Tinker Toys, and not throwing the dishes into the bin just because that's what we do every day. I didn't mean to upset anyone. I was following rules. We put the plastic dishes in the toy chest at the end of the day. How was I supposed to know the girls had "special" permission to set them up in the case? I went on auto pilot pulling the plates off the shelf and putting them away until the teacher yelled at me and made me sit in the corner because I'd lost "control." At least I didn't wet my pants.

A few years after that, I lost control when the zoo lady skipped me when it was time to pet the snake. Everyone else got to touch it accept me, so I did what any little kid does: I cried. The teacher brought me into the office to touch the snake and I even got to see its cage. Then I got scared and wet my pants. (Just kidding)

Skipping a lot of years, I entered middle school where I could never control my mouth. How does anyone expect twelve-year-olds not to talk? Of course the only time I really got in trouble for talking was the time when it wasn't exactly my fault. I was honestly trying to get my work done in study hall, but Julie insisted on talking to me. She said, "I think Miss Fillipone is a good teacher."

I gave her a simple, "Ya."

Next Miss Fillipone yelled at me for talking! I laughed. I shouldn't have laughed, but it was funny. I got in stay-after-school kind of trouble while Julie, who laughed too, went unnoticed. Though angry at the unfairness of it all, I kept control in front of the teacher's desk. Didn't defend myself, didn't argue with her, didn't even look her in the eyes. At least I didn't wet my pants.

That sort of control,  not telling someone what you really think of them, has gone MIA in my adult life. In fact, it's my biggest problem. I tend to lose control and state exactly what's on my mind. It's the sort of thing that has gotten me in trouble with authority figures and makes my kids' boyfriends and girlfriends fear me. Really, I'm not a scary person--just an overly honest one who will blurt out the truth when everyone else is trying to hide it . . . but at least I don't wet my pants . . . unless on a roller coaster.