Fight! Fight! Fight! Blogfest

Another contest.  Check out the rules and regulations at this link:

http://jc-martin.com/fighterwriter/2010/08/17/fight-fight-fight-blogfest/

And be sure to check out all the entries and give fellow bloggers some comment smoochies!


Below is the beginning of my current Work-in-Eternal-Progress (WIEP), The Whip-Slip:

I was running from vampires.

No.  Werewolves.

           

Maybe robots.  Or aliens.  Rabid monkeys?  Perhaps genetically modified corn?

           

Any of these pursuers would sound better than the fact that I was running from the Waltham High School field hockey team effete, big word for worst team in Codde County: last in the league and first to take it out on others. 

Well, in their defense, they weren’t after me because of an insult to their poor athletic prowess.  I had, in fact, made their captain break out in hives and bleed profusely from her nose.

           

And in my defense, it wasn’t actually me that had done it.  It was Her.  Left-Hander, as I called Her.  My significant Other.  She was the squatter in my four-floor walk-up of a brain.  And She liked to hurt people.

           

Some people deserve it, She said.  Only I could hear Her, of course.

           

The rate you’re going, it seems everyone deserves it, I answered.

           

I was taking us out of the red zone and hurrying along my usual path to and from school.  Normally I ran to school and not away from it, a combination of an ailing second-hand alarm clock and frozen breakfasts improperly cooked on the outdoor grill (which our neighbors had left on the curb, and had then watched me drag away on its one wheel).  My Uncle Trenton still wouldn’t spring for a microwave.  Or stove repair. 

I cut through the back yard of the first house in a suburban set positioned across the street from the high school.  No one was home.  A kid-slide in the next yard helped my transition over the first yard’s wire fence.  I kicked a dog bone to the mutt standing guard and helped myself to the fence of the third house.             

“Come for tea, Thea, dear?” Mrs. Grisham asked me from her lawn chair.  We had gotten friendly a couple years ago over a vest at the local thrift.

           

“Not today, Mrs. Grisham!”  I waved, and finished off her yard at a jog.  A gate let me out into the adjoining street. 

“Is everything all right?  Your nose is bleeding!” she called again.

           

“Fine!”

           

I jogged halfway down the new street and let the trees on the opposite curb swallow me up.  I stopped to rest on a boulder.  Blood dripped to my orange Converse. 

They’re coming, T., She told me.

“I know.”  I just needed a moment to claw at the hives purpling my forearms and neck.

I heard cleats on pavement.  They were close.

“Crap.”

I shot up and continued down the woods path that would spit me out near home.  The itching continued, now heading down my thighs.  My jeans felt tight.  Not as tight as my swelling throat though, my airway diminishing.  I chose a tree in the distance to shoot for, a goal within reach.

But I was too slow.

A field hockey stick jabbed the back of my knee and I was down.  Another stick hooked my arm and rolled me face-up.  My sight blurred, my breathing forced.  I could make out faces red from chasing me, the white and green school colors on their uniforms, a couple of victorious smiles.   

           

Heal me, I told Her.  Now.

           

I wouldn’t be able to run otherwise.

           

She was more focused on hurting them first.    

“Where were you goin’, freak?” the blurry face in the middle said.

           

“What’s wrong with her?” another added.  Her grimace was clear. 

           

I tried to sit up.  The butt of a stick knocked me down again.  She twitched, revving.

           

Lefty.  Don’t, I warned. 

           

If I hurt these girls like I had hurt their captain, someone even larger than them would come after me: their older brothers, their boyfriends, their older brothers’ boyfriends. 

Not to mention the police.

           

“We should just bring her to the principal,” one of them said.

           

“No,” the middle one shook her head.  “We can take care of this.”

           

My words were rasped: “Please, I didn’t –.”

           

“What?” she snapped.  “Didn’t what?  Punch Susan in the face?  We all saw it.  She was just asking if you’d done your part of the group project!”

           

Their polite version had sounded more like: “Hey, freak, you better get your shit done before I use your head as a ball!”

           

And Left-Hander had responded according to Her policy of infect first, cool off later.  I knew these girls hadn’t seen a punch.  Left-Hander had forced my hand to grip Susan’s.  The power had entered her, swollen her throat in two seconds and raised hives.  She had passed out.  I had run.  As soon as Left-Hander broke the contact, the power rebounded into me and now Susan and I had a lot in common.

Only Lefty could reverse it.

I felt the blackout approaching.  Spots tangoed in my vision.

           

Lefty…

           

She ignored me.

           

I bolted, twisting onto my belly and then to my feet.  But my body was easier to find with their sticks than a field hockey ball.  They pushed me down.  Fingers gripped my ankle and flipped me onto my back again.

           

It was all She needed.  Her force pulsed through me, bringing my hand to the wrist of the girl on my ankle.  Like a bath faucet pushing from my fingertips, Her power slammed the girl’s skin.  It surged through her veins, two seconds travel to find the weak spot, and she vomited on my legs. 

The other girls screamed.  I broke our contact, scuttling backward.  The power, as if on a rubber-band, bounded back, pushing me flat.  Nausea hit hard.  I rolled to the side and vomited too.  The screams multiplied. 

I could see clearly again.  They were watching me, cuddled together in horror.  My eyes met with Left-Hander’s victim.  Her hand shook as it wiped her lips, eyes wide.

           

“It’s true,” she said.  “What are you?”

           

“Let’s get out of here,” one of the girls decided.  No one asked for further instruction.  They collected their fallen friend and ran before I could answer the question. 

           

What could I say, anyway?  I didn’t know what I was any more than them.

Unsheath thy sword, Scoundrel!

Another blog contest comin' up tomorrow over at J.C. The Fighter Writer's blog.  Check it out:

http://jc-martin.com/fighterwriter/2010/08/17/fight-fight-fight-blogfest/

I'll be posting something from my current work-in-eternal-progress (WIEP), The Whip-Slip.


Thanks again to all those who commented on my entry & joined in on Emily White's blogfest at Stepping Into Fantasy. Emily will be posting 5 finalists tomorrow, so be sure to vote at her blog:

http://steppingintofantasy.blogspot.com/

(Fingers crossed!  Eyes shut tight!)


And also don't forget to sign up for free vampire books (extra-sparkly) at Brad Jaeger's blog:

http://brad-jaeger.blogspot.com/2010/08/charlaine-harris-sookie-stackhouse.html


Regularly-scheduled blog posts (RSBP) will resume sometime later this week.  I've got a couple real/imagined clunkin' around in the good ol' gray matter.

Fairy Tale Blogfest Entry

I'm early, but I'm done (and it's only 3.5 hours before midnight here in NJ), and I don't want to edit this thing anymore (hope early posts are okay, Emily!).  And I've used way too many parentheticals already!  (And exclamation points!)

Link to the contest is below - be sure to check out the other entries!!

http://steppingintofantasy.blogspot.com/2010/08/fairy-tale-blogfestcontest.html

So, with the curtains pulled back, the lights dimmed, the speakers amped, here is my horror-fied version of:

Little Red Riding Hood

Mim always said, “Just wear your red cape and nothing can harm you, baby.”

She promised-promised, firm as the stars in the big black above.

The blue-man rears over me.  “You know who we are, peanut, right?”  He jabs the tag on his blue-shirt.  “Department of Paranormal Investigations.  We’re here to track the big bad wolf that killed your Daddy and Mommy.  Your sister’s been bit.  She’s not human anymore.  We’ll have to put her down once the change hits.”

My eyes mark Sem, sister.  On the bed.  Wet-hair; wet-skin.  Cough-cough.  Red-blood. 

“Medicine,” I say. 

Blue-man shakes his head.  “There’s no cure, peanut.  I’m sorry.”

I remember the herbs Gren showed me.

“Cure to any werewolf bite,” she said.  “Old recipe, just like your grandma, eh?”  Gren laughed.  “No one’s got time for cures anymore.  Just want the demons dead and off the street, but it’s our little secret, right, my love?”

Our little secret.

Another blue man comes.  Same tag on his blue-shirt.  There’s starlight on his hip, metal catching the light.  A dangerous, sharp star.

Axe, I remember Ded telling me.  “All Daddy needs to kill the monsters, pet,” Ded said.

But the hair-man, the werewolf, he put Mim and Ded to sleep.

Killed.

“What are we gonna do with Kid Special over here?” second blue-man points to me.

“She’s fifteen.  She can take care of herself,” first man says.  “If the werewolf’s trackin’ down her whole family, we’ve gotta get to her grandmother’s house, make sure she’s still alive.”

“And if the wolf comes here and finishes her off?”

Blue-man chuckles.  “Wouldn’t be much of a loss, would it?”

They share a laugh.  White, small teeth.  Not like the hair-man’s.

“You stay here with your sister, peanut,” blue-man says.  “Don’t wander.  We’ll come back for you after checkin’ on your grandma.”

And they go.

I’m alone in the house.  Sem sick.  Crying.   She needs medicine.

Our little secret.

I go, bring the talk-phone along.

“Use this cell phone if you ever get into trouble, sweetheart, okay?  Let me show you what to do,” Mim said.

My red cape so tight, so warm.    Nothing can harm me.

The path to Gren’s.  Trees tall.  Dark outside.  Sun’s asleep.

Killed.

Find the herbs.  Gren’s herbs.  We went off the path to find them.

Don’t wander.

Need to help Sem.  Find the cure.  The old cure.

Just like your grandma, eh?

I step off the path.  Cold grass; long stalks hard like sticks.  Wet.  Sharp like the wolf’s teeth.  

Drip-drip of his spit.  I remember the colors in Gren’s hand: blue, red, yellow herbs.

I find them all.  We ground the leaves together, mixed with blood, warmed on a fire.

Steps coming down the path.  There’s a tall, pale-faced man, scar on his chin, fire in his eyes.  Running at me.  “I just saw a werewolf!  You need to get inside, little girl.  What are you doing out here?”  Chest heaving. 

“Gren.”  I point down the path.

“Who’s Gren?  Your grandmother?”

I nod.

“She lives at the end of the path?” he says.  “You better go there now.  I gotta call the Department of Paranormal Investigations, tell ‘em what I saw.  Get goin’.  And don’t dawdle!”

He runs away, down the path again.  “I like your cape, Little Red Riding Hood!” he calls over his shoulder.

I’ll go to Gren’s, make sure the herbs are right.

Blue, red, yellow.  Walking far. 

Don’t dawdle.

Gren’s house is dark.  No blue-men.  No starlight. 

Her door’s open, house cold.

“Gren?”

Growl. From the kitchen.

“Gren?”

In the kitchen, on the tile: a wolf.

But it’s not the hair-man.  It’s Gren, changed now.  Fur like hay, like Gren’s hair.  Eyes blue.  Gren-eyes.  Like Ded’s.  Paw-claws instead of fingernails.  Tail like a clutter-duster.

But it’s Gren.

“Medicine, Gren.  For you and Sem.”  I show her the herbs.

She whimpers.

Through the window flies a shiny, blinking bug.  Gren cries and slumps.  Asleep.

Killed?

No, not killed.  Real sleep.

Through the back door, the blue-men come.

“Told you to stay at your house, Red,” blue-man says.

Starlight again on the other man’s hip.

“Easier than I thought it would be.”  Blue-man stows the stun-stick – like Ded’s – in his belt.  Lifts 

Gren over his shoulder.   “We caught him, peanut.  The big bad wolf,” he says to me.

“Gren,” I say.  He’s got Gren on his shoulder.

“Not Gren, peanut.  This is the werewolf that killed your family.  Your Gren’s not here.”

“Gren.”  I point to her.  “Medicine.”  I show him the herbs. 

“Forget it,” other blue-man says to the first.  “Just get the werewolf out of here.  He probably ate the grandma.  I’ve gotta hit the toilet.”

First blue-man takes Gren away, second removes his belt, puts the starlight on the countertop.  He finds the bathroom, locks the door.

Another door opens.  The back door again, quiet and smooth.  Footsteps, soft and light.  But no one appears.  They’re hiding.  A stranger in the house.

I pull my red cape tighter.  Safety.  I eye the starlight on the countertop. 

All Daddy needs, pet.

“Thought I told you to go home.”  Blue-man returns from the toilet, zip-zip on his pants.  Takes his belt and straps it, eyes still on me.  “Freakin’ idiot,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Stranger in the house appears in the doorway.  The pale-man in the woods, half-changed, half of a hair-man.  Big bad wolf.

“Big ears,” I say.

He approaches.  “So I can hear you better.”

“Big eyes.”

“So I can see you,” he says.  Still coming.

“Big teeth.”

“So I can chomp you in half, Little Red Riding Hood.”

He lunges.

I pull the starlight from its hiding place at my back, lock his chest with its edge.  Blood flows.  Hair-man sees his broken chest and cries.  Falls.  Pure, silver starlight in his chest keeps me safe.  

Big black above for him.

One last gurgle, and he’s asleep.

Killed.

I use the talk-phone, remember emergency number.  I’ll get Gren back, get Sem back.

Medicine’s ready.

I’m on my way.

Contestants. Start your horses. Oh, I mean engines. Forgot we're in the Age of Technology.

This weekend I'll be working on my submission to a contest.  For writers out there, sign up to this great contest as well as follow (obsessively/stalkerifically) this great blog by Emily White:

http://steppingintofantasy.blogspot.com/2010/08/fairy-tale-blogfestcontest.html


Also another contest for those True Blood fans out there at Brad Jaeger's blog:

http://brad-jaeger.blogspot.com/2010/08/charlaine-harris-sookie-stackhouse.html



Check 'em both out and make sure to have a good weekend!

Or else.

Just Verifying...

Blogs.

Comments.

Word verifications.

We see them every day.  Blogger needs you to type something similar to the following words in order to make a comment:

hoirrh

crawdi

diumnd

clendedr

But does anyone ever wonder if perhaps through Blogger Word Verification we are being given some grand message?  Secrets of the universe?  Contact from extraterrestrials?  Exchanges from doppelgangers in another dimension?

Got goosebumps?  That's okay.  I do too.

But no worries.  I've spent the last fifteen minutes (of unpaid time, mind you), randomly generating these Word Verifications for your amusement (and serious consideration).  Let's see what we can decipher:

1. oxysid

OxyClean meets Sid Vicious meets Detergent for the Punk Rock Community!  For those rockers who want to wash but wish to remain discreet about it, OxySid will meet your needs!


2. coled

Slang for a future generation.  People of today get pwned, people of tomorrow get coled.


3. expeging

Another future word. 

Merriam-Webster definition of expeging:

[verb] to expeg

Merriam-Webster definition of expeg:

[verb] the action by which an individual greatly expects.

i.e. I greatly expect my book will be published.
i.e. I greatly expect this blog will one day change the universe.
i.e. I greatly expect that there will be one more example related to expeging.
i.e. I greatly expect...that I'm about to move onto #4.


4. reptabar

Want a bar in your basement but can't afford it?  Buy a Reptabar!  Cold-blooded reptiles are just as good as your outdated refrigerator!  Simply place your six of Budweiser in cuddle position next to your Reptabar's belly.  Within hours, that beer will be as cold as the frozen goldfish your kids still haven't buried in the back yard!


5. amidal

 Pharmaceutical companies will hit it big with Amidal, the new pill built specifically to fight writer's block.

Disclaimer: Amidal is said to cause sheer panic, illusions of grandeur, fan-fiction, cruddy blog posts, nosebleeds, and discoloration of the feces.


6. muteest

Slang referring to artists of the technology generation.  People used to say "arteest" to imply someone whose artistic aspirations have far surpassed the fancy part of Fancy Feast cat food.

Muteest refers to those who are overly-indulgent when it comes to an online presence.
i.e. "Shut the hell up!"

Twitter, Facebook, Blogger.  Sometimes a little Muteest is needed.


Got any Word Verifications of your own that you want to decipher?  Just leave a comment and you'll get one!

Another Blog Post. I mean, Block Post.

Writer's Block is one of the greatest nemeses (nemesis'?  I don't think Buffy ever clarified that one) out there.

He/She/It/That can change form at will, and much like a boggart, take the shape of that which you fear the most. 

That Fear then leads to extreme paralysis of your gray/pink/brown matter (I'm color-blind, folks), and the novel/short story/screenplay/thank you note you're currently working on is nothing more than a blinking cursor on your flat-screen monitor.

Blink.  Blink.  Blink. 

No doubt Writer's Block appeared in the form of a cat when a certain Brit decided to throw said cat into a dumpster **(GOOGLE: BRITISH LADY CAT DUMPSTER)**

Now that lady can finish writing her shopping list in peace!


But in all seriousness -

hahahahahahaha!

Okay, that wasn't a good start.  In all manner of sarcasm, here is a list of

HOW TO AVOID WRITER'S BLOCK

- Blindfold the Block, spin it around, and send it to Stephen King's house in dizzied confusion.  That guy has written enough books already.

- Drink water upside down and hold your breath for thirty seconds.  (Oh wait, that's hiccups...)

- Pretend that you're actually writing by going like this on your keyboard:

dkdfkjl;adfkjoer092843jkl;dfjkl;asdfjkl;asdfja

Writer's Block will think you're immune to he/she/it/that's ways and leave you alone.

- Drink Scotch upside down and cry uncontrollably.  (Oh wait, that's just me...)

- Show him/her/it/that a copy of Spencer Pratt's forthcoming biography and explain that had he/she/it/that been doing their job correctly, they would have known that Mr. Pratt needed to catch Writer's Block far more than someone like yourself.  Writer's Block will agree, fall into a deep depression, and take a leave of absence.

- Paint a train tunnel on the side of your house and hope he/she/it/that runs into it and gets squished.


Now it's your turn.  What can be added to the list?

It's powdered sugar. Honest.

Okay, I'm not even gonna get into The Real here, because what was Real actually seems more like The Imagined.  I have to add in a few embellishments because I'm a writer and that's "what we do", but here goes:


For three bucks, you can buy what is in fact the dream meal.

That's right, fried dough (aka Dough Boys) with confectioner's sugar.  If I ever find those confectioners they're gonna be working for me as personal lackeys.

The last place you want to be while eating a Boy of Dough (which looks nothing like a boy, but more like a flattened potato), is around designer clothes.  But I tend to shirk common sense for a more agreeable existence full of random inanities.  So to the Consignment Shoppe I go!

Lady with the frizzy hair sells clothes on Vacation Island that you don't need a second mortgage to buy (and that make you re-think the purchase of the lobster soap dish for $70 that you're going to regret as soon as the opiate that is Vacation wears off).

Already plastered in powdered sugar by the time I get to Ye Olde Consignmente Shoppe, I opt to stay outside with the sale racks and finish my Dough before I spend some dough.

"Excuse me, doll."

I'm blocking a small table and chair set just outside the shop's door.  Mr. wavy-hair with silver-blue eyes sits down, crosses his legs, and gives me a smile that would charm the gold out of a leprechaun's pot.

"What are you eating?" he asks.

"Fried dough," I say, through a mouthful of the stuff.  (I'm always the flirt.)

"What's on your clothes?"

Of course the sugar looks like I'd dived head-first into a barrel of a certain illegal drug.  What Coca-Cola used to be full of before the government caught on.

(Who needs drugs when you have Imagination, kids?  Seriously!)

"Oh, it's sugar," I say.

Wavy-hair has got a pizza roll that he doesn't want to eat, so in exchange for a shred of Dough Boy, I get a bit of sauce and cheese in return.

I sit opposite of him.  We exchange the usual get-to-know-yous.  Apparently he owns two houses, two cars, two boats, and two kingdoms.

"Wait.  Kingdoms?" I interrupt him for clarity.

"I'm a Faerie King," he says, now through his own mouthful of Boy.

"That's why your eyes are creepy."

"My blood's silver."

"Gotcha."

"I'm only on the island until my birthday in October."

"So's mine!  When's your birthday?"

"The 30th."

Okay, so is mine.  And I blurt out as such.  Day before Halloween - so now you know why all manner of mystical and paranormal creature treat me as their biographer.

"We should trade presents," he says.

"What do you want?"

"A crossbow."

"Oh, um..."

"I want you to build me a crossbow," he says, leaning over his pizza roll and throwing a silver shadow on the remainder of my Dough Boy.

"I'm not really a carpenter - ."

"I want to fill one of my boats with fireworks and blow it up with a flaming arrow."

"Oh, um..."

"Birthday bash worth remembering."

"Maybe Legolas can help you out.  He's a fairie, right?"

"An elf," he grunts.  "And that blonde hair is a wig."

"And I doubt his name is really Orlando," I add.

"I want you to ship the crossbow General Delivery to the island," he says.  "Give me the day you're sending it and I'll check the post office for a week before and after, waiting for it."

"Wow, you really want a crossbow.  But I work insurance, you know.  Zombie Accident Insurance.  Carpentry isn't really my thing."

"Are you saying you don't want to build it?"

"I'm more worried that you snorted a little too much confectioner's sugar last night."

He sighs.  "Well, if you don't want to do it then you should back out now."

"Rear headlights are on, but it was nice to know you - didn't catch your name."

He introduces himself as Leander Golde Bond.

Yeah, definitely high on fairie dust.

Miss Me?

Oh, you didn't?

Really?

But I imagined that you did, and that's what this bloggie is all about, right?

(Note: do not use the word "bloggie" ever again because 1) it is too similar to snuggie, and you might get sued, and 2) blog is so much more sophisticated of a word ((except that it's the noise a troll would make while choking - but I'm off-topic again, aren't I?)) )


As it turns out, my doppelganger commandeered my existence during my week off from regularly-scheduled life, causing the following problems:

- Suddenly all of the male characters in my novel are tall with wavy hair; muscular, rich, well-dressed, and have smoldering, dark eyes, and several suspicious characteristics of [insert paranormal creature here].

- I own a turquoise corduroy jacket, which means I must be visiting Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory sometime soon...

- There is a contract on my desk to be the ghostwriter for Spencer Pratt's tell-all:

http://news.bostonherald.com/track/star_tracks/view.bg?articleid=1276209&srvc=home&position=also

- All of my favorite blogs have continued to add brilliant posts while I was away - and she did not read any of them!

- Justin Bieber asked out Emma Watson instead of me, when doppel failed to reply to his invitation:

http://www.starpulse.com/news/index.php/2010/08/20/justin_bieber_enchanted_by_emma_watson

- Apparently you cannot pay your American Express bill with Monopoly money or a "Get Out of Debt Free Card".

- Dry cleaning does not involve splashing my work pants with martinis.

- Warner Brothers screens Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and she rents Harry and the Hendersons & Sleepy Hollow thinking it'll be the same thing.

- My Netflix queue is deleted when she sees a much shorter line at Blockbuster.



Regularly-scheduled blog posts shall return tomorrow!  Even if you didn't miss me, I missed you.

Quest.

It is time.

The gods above have called me out on a Quest which I must now complete.  This quest involves lying on beaches, fighting the occasional sea monster, and allowing my inner editor to possess my soul as I embark on the final draft of my novel.

This Quest is otherwise known as a Vacation.  (And yes, I must be crazy to think editing a novel is part of my vacation.)

So, readers (and casual perusers), I will see you in a week.  But if a good witch happens to gift me the power of internet, it might be sooner.

Once again, thanks for reading, thanks for commenting, and thanks for paying taxes.  The U.S. government needs it.

-- Elena

Gingerbread.

The Real:

Jogging in suburban Jersey.
The eye-sore house.  And I mean, like, I slowed down just to gape at it.


The Imagined:

Oh my God, I'm about to cross paths with someone on my jog.

What do I do?  They're strangers, but perhaps they're friendly people.  Do I smile?  Do I nod?  Do I say "good day" like a proper Englishman?

Always one to try new things, I decide to nod and say hello.

I get a glare in return.

First instinct: New Jersey-ites are rude.

But to give them the benefit of the doubt, here I am, sweating like a pig (the kind of pig that sweats, wherever they happen to live...I think I'll have to explore that in another blog post...hmm) all over their neighborhood.  My headphones are blasting all that "newfangled" music that all the kool kids are listening to, and sometimes I even think they know I'm originally from New York.  I've got the New York patina that they can smell like a pig digging truffles (something pigs actually do).  Maybe if I wasn't listening to Jay-Z & Alicia Keys singing about the very same state, I could get by.

So I sweat some more and jog on, determined to keep trying the smile-and-nod.

Then an old lady at her mailbox flags me down.

I'm not the type to jog in place.  I'm happy for a break - and so are my legs.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

"Oh yes, dear, yes.  Do you have a quarter?"

"Of sense and Transylvanian blood, yes, but not the money.  Sorry.  I'm already carrying my license and registration in my sports bra.  There's no more room."

She droops.  "Oh, well, thank you anyway, dear.  My phone is broken, you see, and I so desperately need to call my grandchildren.  I was going to use a pay-phone in town."

"You want me to take a look at it?"

Now she brightens.  "Oh, would you?  Oh, my dear, that would be wonderful!  Please, do come in!"

And that's when I see her house.  Two concrete lions on either side of her driveway, Corinthian columns guarding her door - and making it seem like a mouse-hole in comparison; the bubbling fountain on the lawn that's so big there's no more lawn left, the flowers pots attached to the house's facade, vomiting what looks like fungus; topiaries, American flags, and the massive satellite perched on her roof like a crashed UFO.

"I think you forgot to buy a mansion along with all this stuff," I say.

"What, dear?"

"Never mind.  Let's go inside."

Even from the foyer I can smell the baked goods goodness coming from the kitchen.

"Smells delish," I admit.

"Oh, go on in, dear.  Have a brownie.  Have two!  There, there," she shuttles me toward her kitchen.

There aren't just brownies.  There's pies, cannolis, cupcakes, and tarts.  Taffy and pudding, cookies and custards.

Have I made you hungry yet?

"Take whatever you want, dear," the old lady says.

"Why did I come in here again?"  'Cause I honestly can't remember now...was it something to do with a phone?

But she's got a slice of pie under my nose in a few more seconds and a seat at the table for me, clean fork  at my disposal.

The pie scratches my itch, hits that target, and shoots for the stars fifty times over.  Now I really can't remember why I'm here, but who cares?

"That's it, dear, eat up.  When you're done eating, you won't be a nice little girl anymore.  You'll be just as sour as my desserts are sweet."

I stop.  "Huh?"

"Eat.  Eat," she urges, her eyes looking like a cult leader's on doomsday.

"Wait a minute...did you just say what I think you said?"

"What did I say?"

"I'm going to finish this pie and stop being nice to people?"

"That ear infection you had must have messed up your hearing, dear."

I stand, throwing the pie to the table.  "Is that why everyone out there keeps glaring at me?  You've infected them with your pastry madness!  All of New Jersey!  Do you realize how many times I've been cut off or honked at while driving - all because you've made them hate everyone!"

"There's a leprechaun in Paris doing the same thing, dear.  Stop shouting."

I sigh.  "This is for your own good, lady."

"What is?"

And remembering the fairy tale quite well, I push her into the oven.  It's not as easy as Hansel & sis made it look, and she really doesn't fit in there.

In fact, her dress hem gets stuck on the broiler, and now she's howling and knocking her pastries to the floor.

"All right, all right.  Just hold on a second."  I unhook the hem and she leaps away from the oven.

"Just get out of here!"  She points to the door.

I give her a once-over.  "You know what I think you need?"

"What?" she snaps.

"Exercise.  It does wonders.  Just last year I was a frustrated writer and now I'm a - well, I'm still a frustrated writer, but the baby fat is completely gone now.  It's like magic!"

"Really?"

"Really."

It takes some coaxing, but she eventually puts her old bones to the pavement and keeps pace with me.  Now we're both sweating, smiling, and nodding.

Maybe I'll see some smiles tomorrow.

Carry-On.

The Real:

Obsessive email-checking.
My parents return home from vacation.


The Imagined:

The email inbox is Christmas morning made virtual.  You get a lot of junk from distant relatives (or Nigerian princes), but there's also that one gift - that one response - that you really desire.  When you get it, it's as rewarding as unwrapping a present without tearing the lovely gold-inlaid paper.

So far I've checked my email enough to give it rug burn.  I manage to stay away for one hour, two, and then wonder if it might be all right to just check it one...more...time -

The dogs howl.  A car has pulled into the driveway: my parents arrived home from Vancouver.

Greetings all around, including a few face-licks (I'm trying to kick the habit).  I'm happy for the distraction from my email while my parents talk about Chinese drug lords, native artwork, tequila parties, postcard thieves, and nude beaches. 

We don't notice my Dad's suitcase rocking slightly side to side.

When the conversation lulls, I succumb to my desire and head to the computer.  I know I should wait a while, but I'm just so eager to -

BAM!  The door bursts open and in come the black ops, complete with night-vision goggles.

I put my hands up.  "Okay, I won't check it anymore!  Jeez!"

But it's not me they're pointing the automatics at.  It's my Dad's suitcase.

Now we notice it rocking, rocking so hard that it tips. 

One of the ops guys reaches forward to open it.  Nestled among my Dad's plaids and stripes is what looks like a platypus.  It's purring, obsessively licking its paws. 

"What is that?" I ask.

"Extra-terrestrial," the ops guy answers.

"Dad, I know you like aliens, but..."

"It's not your Dad's fault, sweetheart," ops says.  "These ETs have been hitchin' rides across country lines for years now.  Gotta control the import and export carefully."

"Are they...dangerous?"

The alien-platypus decides to answer me.  Its head lifts, seeing us for the first time.  Its claws curl inward, body tensing.  And then it sees my computer.

Its black eyes light up the same as I expect mine to when I check my inbox again.  But then the alien leaps from the suitcase and devours my laptop.

It burps.  And that's it for the Mac.

"They're only dangerous to hardware," the ops guy tells me, a little too belatedly.

"This'll be good for me," I say.  "Patience is a virtue and idle hands are the platypus' play-thing, right?  Or something like that."

Fine Dining.

The Real:

Emotions.


The Imagined:

"Hello, my name is Terri and I'll be you server today.  Would you like to hear about our specials?"

"Yeah, that would be great," I say.

"For an appetizer, we have char-grilled Spite with a wonderful lemon-glaze sauce, sauteed Ignorance on the side, and that also comes with some roasted vegetables.  For an entree, we have Love tossed in our very sweet Adoration parmesan sauce, topped with bits of Obsession, and on the side some whipped Joy.  We also have barbecued Reticence with ginger topping and a side of Fear sprinkled with Hope oil and our homemade Thoughtful dressing."

"What's your soup of the day?"

"Hatred, and that also comes with some wheat crackers."

"I really hate Hatred, actually.  I'm going to start with a garden salad, but hold the Agitation."

"What kind of dressing would you like?"

"Um, do you have Elation?"

"Sure, no problem.  And your appetizer?"

"I'm going to have the Humble tortilla with sour cream and guacamole, and the Guilt combo."

"Your entree?"

"I'm feeling lucky today.  I'll go with Love."

Eat Rocks.

The Real:

Waiting in line.
Frozen custard.
Diamond discrepancies.


The Imagined:

Turn on the news. 

Morning show with Jen and Ted, who had recently replaced Meredith and Bob, who had replaced Ellen and Sam, who had in turn replaced Tina and Ryan.  Only the weatherman had kept his job.

Sunny with a chance of employment.

"Now, we all know that this summer heat has been almost unbearable," Jen says.

"That's right, Jen.  I've wanted to come to work naked a few times now!"  Ted laughs.

Jen laughs too, but not without a wary side-glance at Ted.

"The trolls have found a good way to beat the heat," Ted continues.

"That's right.  Frozen concrete!" Jen announces.

"Yum.  Let's take a look."

Ted's face is replaced with a New York City park.  Strung from the window of a snack shack is a line of trolls that curve around the perimeter of the park all the way back to its entrance.

Even by New York City's standards, trolls are strange.  Recent scientific discoveries relate their genes back to pre-historic rock formations that developed the desire to eat other forms of rock.  Trolls have hair made of weeds, internal organs literally made of stone, a set of diamond teeth but no tongues, and their bodies are crude statues, as if their sculptor up and died after making only a few strikes with his chisel and hammer.

True to form, they were paid well in the construction industry for cleaning away the stone refuse of building demolitions and consuming the rocky sediment of areas previously-impossible to dig foundations on.

But they overheated just like anyone else.  Their sweat looked like Mercury. 

Jen explains: "Frozen concrete is a delectable mixture of chilled concrete blended at high speed with various fruits, nuts, and a yummy chocolate sauce!"

"I'm fattening up just hearing about it, Jen!" Ted adds.  "Won't be able to fit into my Speedo!"

I off the television.  My cell phone rings, and it's quickly agreed between my friend and I that we have to try frozen concrete, our teeth be damned!

So we wait in a line full of trolls.  At least they don't smell.  Listening to the argument of two female trolls ahead of us is fun for a while.

Lady Troll A had her diamond teeth upgraded to 50 karats, courtesy of her new boyfriend.  Unfortunately, Lady Troll B also had her diamond teeth upgraded by the same guy (or troll, rather).

What was an argument turns into a fight.  By the time I order my frozen concrete with extra strawberries, the two trolls are using their frozen treats as weapons.  ]

Concrete is heavy. 

Frozen concrete is heavier.

Lady Troll A misses B by an inch and hits me instead.  My head rings with the weight of her dessert, and I'm down for the count, a slosh of concrete and bruised strawberries littering my front.

"Elena, you all right?"  My friend leans over me.

In the frenzy, my own frozen concrete has spilled.  I sigh.  "Well, at least I'll fit into my Speedo this year."


http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/38614612

Woof.

The Real:

A stray dog follows me on my run.


The Imagined:

There are fourteen legs on this trail.

Not strewn about like, you know, body parts, but fourteen pumping, furry, running legs.  (Sorry, I forgot to shave last night.)

Me and the three dogs doing what has become ritual.  One with nature, one in mind, and I'm even panting too.

Then I notice that another quartet of legs has joined us.  A puppy, tags jingling and nose eager to sniff my no-clearance zones.

"Hey there, pal."  I don't stop running.

He doesn't either, joining the trio of dogs trying to keep up with me.

The sun performs its last lap of the woods right along with us, and I'm starting to wonder who's responsible for our guest.  Perhaps Amanda the Yeti got a pet - but I'm not going to have time to see her before the sun pulls the covers over its head.

I determine to call the owner once I'm back at the car.  When I see the man with a leash waiting for us in the parking lot, I figure I don't have to.

The puppy bounds to him and he's quickly tethered.

"Glad you're here," I say, still panting.

The man is tall.  Really tall.  His eyes are as blue as my Honda; his hair so white it almost seems clear in the fading light.

"He stayed with me the whole time," I explain, finally reaching him.

The puppy sits against his leg, tongue wagging at me.

The man still doesn't speak.

"Well, have a good night."  I lead the dogs around him and head for that Honda.

"Thank you," a booming voice says to my back.

I turn.  The man's smiling now.  His teeth have had a few sessions with bleach.

"No problem."

"He gets curious sometimes and runs off," the man says.

"Oh."

"But we must be getting back now.  The sun's almost gone."

At least I know he's not a vampire.  They gave me enough grief.  But he certainly wasn't human.  This was my imagination after all.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Elena."

"I'm Orion."

"Like the constellation?"

He nods.

"Wow, you look really..."  Now I can see the similarities: his large belt, the knife hanging from it.  And his dog, of course.  "You know, you look good like this.  Much easier to spot," I say.  "I'm good with the Dippers though.  Seeing them makes me think of cooking pasta."

He checks the sky and setting sun.  "I had really better get up there.  The show's almost starting."

"Need a ride?"

"No, I'll just take the elevator.  But thank you."

"Sure."

I watch him walk to the end of the parking lot.  He pushes an invisible button in the air before him and I hear the ding of elevator doors parting.  He steps into a box I can't see, the ding sounds again, and he's gone.

"Guess he's going to the penthouse," I say.  The dogs don't laugh.  "Come on, you three.  I'm craving ziti."

Where Have All the Glutes Gone?

The Real:

Living in an increasingly "gluten-free" world.



The Imagined:

Replacing inner turmoil with outer, I decide to venture outdoors and find out what's making all of that noise.

Vampires, werewolves, faeries, I can handle, but what I find is a big glob of what looks like peanut butter on the forest floor.

And it's crying, thin streams of clear liquid spouting from its gouged head like a volcano spewing its guts.  The wailing coming from somewhere in its belly is obviously the gut-wrenching opera of pain that sometimes occurs when emotions get out of hand.

I sit next to it, reach my hand out for a gentle pat of condolence, but withdraw when I realize that I don't know where to touch.

"You all right?" I finally ask.

The glob freezes for a moment; wailing cut short.

"Who's that?" it asks.  And it's definitely an "it".  Its voice is many voices, like what you might hear from an army of ants.

"Just a lonely writer.  I could hear you crying from inside.  What's up?"

"Oh, you wouldn't understand."

"I mentioned I'm a writer, right?  I once changed the punctuation on one sentence for four hours straight. I'll understand."

"Okay, maybe you're right."  The glob sighs, its sides welding further into the ground.

"Can I ask what you are?"

"We're gluten!  And we have no place else to go!"

"Ah, I see.  This whole 'gluten-free' phase that's going around."

"People used to be upset about trans fat, and that was all well and good!  Trans fat is a vile cow!  But we're not bad, except now everyone thinks we are."

The wailing commences again.

"There, there."  I pat the air, still careful not to disturb its glutinous shell.

"Why must people make enemies of everything?" gluten asks.  "You're a writer.  Why must you always have villains in your stories?"

I thought for a moment.  "Well, without villains, there's no challenge, is there?  We've all gotta have stuff to run from, otherwise we'll never be able to go anywhere."

"If people are afraid of us, they should confront us face to face, not make the whole world 'gluten-free'!"

"Yes, perhaps you're right.  And that's what writing's good for, because everyone in fiction has gotta face up to Voldemort at some point or other.  Real life, maybe not."

"Who's Voldemort?  A protein compound?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I wish life were fiction."

"Eh, maybe it is," I shrug.  "Maybe we're all just characters, dressing up in our book jackets every morning and confronting the demons of the world.  If that's the case, then I better get some sleep.  Demons are tough to kill."

"Will you come back?"

"Of course.  I love bread."

Caution: Writer. Part Two.

To continue from yesterday's post:

The Demon

aka

The clever snake curled around your spine that keeps on with:

write write write

And you can't stop, even if you try.  No, sir.

The Revisionist

aka

He with the upturned nose and monocle who thinks "that sentence could be just a bit better, don't you?"

And yeah, he's right, but can't you just let me overuse adverbs for one more day?

Pretty please?  I'm absolutely belligerently begging you, Revisionist!

And once you give in, then comes the:

OCD

aka

"It's not a disorder, doc, it's an Obsessive Compulsive Demon."

What if it's not good enough?  What if the agent rejects it?  What if I wake up tomorrow and my characters have rebelled?

Go for a run.  A few deep breaths.  Rinse and repeat.  You'll be fine.

Oh, and then there's:

Success.

And this could be coming up with an idea, finishing a draft, signing an agent, hooking an editor, landing topside of the New York Times Bestsellers List.

But honestly, truthfully, most definitely: just that one word you're inspired to create, and then the next one, and the next one, and the next one - 

That's success.  Getting started is the hardest part.

In addition, I wanted to publish my massive thanks to everyone tuning in.  I appreciate the comments and page views.  It's been a blast so far!

Now I think there's some mystical creature making trouble in my back yard.  Better go check it out.

Caution: Writer. Part One.

"Mom.  Dad.  There's something I have to tell you."

Right about now they're thinking you're either gay, pregnant, or a Republican.

But no.

"I'm a writer," you say.

Cue massive intake of air, head-shaking, tears, rants, and the inevitable: "Why couldn't you be unemployed like the rest of your age group?"

"But, really, I can like, make up stories and stuff all by myself!"

It doesn't help.  They're distraught.

But it's not the writer part that worries them.  It's the extra padding.  You know what I'm talking about.  Remember when Pandora opened that box?

Writers uncap a pen or order up a new document on Microsoft Word - and there's no going back.  Here come the demons.  Here come the angels.

Shall we?

Glorious Inspiration
aka
"I just had an idea so good that I pissed myself and I don't have time to clean up because I've gotta get to my computer."

We love Inspiration.  She's capricious, hard-to-get, and oh-so-hard to keep, like that person you dated who was better-looking than you and you knew it and they knew it but you hoped it wouldn't matter.  But fun was had, right?


Jealousy
aka
"How come Stephenie Meyer can write a bestseller in six months and I've been working on my YA fantasy for five years?  Oh, the agony!"

Next to the word "awesome" in the dictionary is a picture of Stephenie Meyer.  This lady dreams, writes, and succeeds.  And the problem is...?

But in all seriousness, Jealousy's a bee-yotch with an axe to grind.  We all want it.  It.  Recognition.  Applause.  The occasional vow of immortal fandom.  But writing's not about that, is it?  Jealousy is the one who makes you forget what it's really about:


Satisfaction
aka
"I just wrote a four-hundred page novel.  Rinse and repeat.  I just wrote a four-hundred page novel.  No one else will ever write this novel.  I wrote it.  And it's mine.  And I think it's awesome.  I'm like a super-hero or something!"

And to quote the Hokey-Pokey: "That's what it's all about!"

It is, folks.


The Block
aka
"I think a zombie ate my brain last night.  I can't write.  I can't outline.  Am I even a writer anymore?  Oh my God!  What am I?"

And then you jump through a window.

Okay, maybe not.  But the Block - Writer's Block to be exact - is akin to that ear infection I had last week.

It sucks.  There's no cure.  And you just have to wait it out.


Until Hope comes along.
aka
Miss Inspiration's cousin.  The moment you write that draft and you know.  This is it.  I've done it.  All that work paid off.  This might be something.  In fact, it is something because I've already put the work in.

Just as hard to keep, but Hope ain't so fickle.  She'll settle down with you for the long-run if you give her a chance.


Rejection
aka
"A werewolf just clawed out my insides."

How could they reject ME?  How could they reject THIS?  This is...this is...

Wrong place, wrong time.  Not their preference.  You made a typo in the query letter.

Keep on movin', bucko.  Life's for the living, not the despairing.  Write on!


Characters
aka
"Oh, you guys again?  I wrote the draft just how you wanted it and you're still not happy?"

Nope.  They won't ever be happy.  But you're the parent.  Tell them when bed-time is and make sure they brush their teeth.  Just don't forget to let 'em play in the mud every once in a while.  They might find buried treasure.


[TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW]

Just like Forrest Gump.

The Real:

Jogging at the local track.



The Imagined:

The only thing that keeps me going 'round and 'round without too many walking breaks is the threat:

If you walk during this stretch, your book will never be published.

I don't know what I'll do when I'm actually published.  Probably:

If you walk during this stretch, your second book will never be published.

And so on and so forth until my body catches on and quits.

I finish my mile and head back to the car.  Mr. Sweaty one car over lights a cigarette.  I'd seen him running, now he's sucking Camel.  He nods my way.  I nod back.

"How ya doin', Buggie?" he calls.

I pause, driver's side door in my hand.  "How did you know?"

I look him over again.  I couldn't blame myself for the mistake.  What vampire jogs at the track?  I didn't even know they could sweat.

"I'm out of the transport business," I say.  "Took enough effort to dodge a murder charge.  I work insurance now."

"How'd you skip the rap?"  He blows smoke my way.

"Told them I was on my period."

He pointed.  "You girls get too much leeway with that excuse."

I shrug.  "You vampires don't have it so hard either, what with your immortality and all.  Why are you jogging, by the way?"

He drags first, then answers: "Back in the day, people were satisfied to see us in black cloaks and coffins.  Now, the standards are cock-eyed.  They expect us to be pretty and clean, muscular, and I have to feel stuff, you know?"

"No."

"I have to care.  It's exhausting.  And this body - ."  His cigarette marks the way down his torso.  "- this body doesn't last if I don't do the upkeep.  So here I am."

"Smoking."

"I'm on my period," he jokes.

"Can't you be however you want to be?"

"You're telling me you never cave to expectations, love?"

"Only when I'm on my period.  I gotta go."

"Good night, then."

"Good nicotine to you too."

I hop in the car and pull away.  I can see his eyes watching mine in the rearview mirror.  Smoke curls around his body, whispering in his ear.

"Good night," I say again. 

My Hairy Friend.

The Real:

Walking the dogs in the woods.



The Imagined:

Three dogs.  Two leashes.  One trail.

Just stay on the path, right?  Can't get lost, can't stray too far from the Honda, won't end up like the girl who loved Tom Gordon.

Except, I haven't seen any marked trees lately...Was I on the one-blue-square trail or the two-blue-square trail?  And is that a skeleton holding a compass leaning against that tree?

Jiminy Cricket - what was that?

I flip around.  The dogs are barking.  They're running at me through the trees.

"We found something!" Eloise says to me (Big Sis's mutt).

"Eloise?  You talk?"

"This is your imagination, remember?  Come on!"

"Oh.  Okay."

The hounds lead me back they way they came.  At the bottom of a hill, the monster awaits.

"Hi!" it waves with a hairy arm.

"Hello..."

The dogs run down the hill before me and crowd around the thing, sniffing its legs and nether regions.  The monster is hairier than me as a werewolf (see a few posts down).  The only non-hair piece of it is the eyeballs, two glossy black marbles - and the fanny-pack strung around its waist.

I finish the hill and approach.

"I'm Yeti.  How are you?"  The Yeti extends a hand.

I take it.  "Lost."

She nods.  "Yeah, it happens."

I give her a second once-over.  "Aren't Yetis supposed to be white?  I thought that Big Foot was the woods one."

Her eyes pop.  "Big Foot!  How dare you!  Do these look like big feet?"  She lifts a foot, toes wiggling.  "That is a perfect size six, I'll have you know!"

I back up a step.  "Okay, sorry, just trying for accuracy.  I've got a blog you know.  These details matter."

"Yeah, me too," she sighs.  "Doesn't get any traffic though."

"You have internet?"

"Yeah, I'm in a cabin a couple miles that way."  She points over her shoulder.

"What brings you out here?"

She unzips the fanny pack to reveal the hoard of cigarette butts inside.  "Clean-up.  I find these things everywhere."

"Just like adverbs," I say.

"Come on.  I'll take you back to your car."

"Oh, thanks, Yeti."

"Call me Amanda."

"You know, there's a sale on at Steve Madden.  Want to go?"