50 Word Stories: Turmoil

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I think I took this when super storm sandy happened.

Water fell in torrents. What a perfect end to a stormy night. Rain poured down the gutter, my face fell with it. I looked down at my speckled blue rain coat, and flicked the dark drops from my shoulders. Tomorrow will be a new day. Today, I’ll bury the hatchet.

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Writing Prompt #12: Write a story that consists mostly of dialogue

“So then Robbie told me that he caught this giant lobster, and it practically took his arm off.”

“What’d he do with it?”

A shrug from the man across the lunch table from me. “Dunno.” He picked at some chicken in his teeth. “Cooked it up–No. That one he threw back.”

Rafael has been regaling me with tales of fishing with his cousin in Maine. In the last fifteen minutes, I’ve learned that people in Maine talk funny, chowdah is the tits, and don’t stick your face in front of a lobster. Specifically, its claws.

“What’d you do this weekend?” He asks me.

I shrug. “Went to the park. Worked out. Got a pizza.”

“Your life is so boring, dude.”

I shrug again but its more like a wince. “Daniella left, you know. Again.”

“Why you wasting your time with her? Get a new one.” He juggles his hands in front of his chest knowingly. Our co-worker, Jane, makes an appalled face.

I bite back a laugh. “Naw, man…I don’t think Merlin would approve.” Merlin’s my five-year old rottweiler who’s part human and part dog-child all wrapped into one-hundred and thirty pounds of goofball; but mostly he just hogs the covers.

“I think I have a cousin, you can meet,” says Rafael.

“I hope it’s not Robert.”

Chicken goes down the wrong way, and comes flying out across the table. “You’re gonna kill me, man.” Another cough. “It’s Ashley. You know, bright-blond, kinda slutty?”

I grunt. “What happened to Sarah?”

“Oh, she got married last year. Met some guy in Vegas. I told her not to, but she said he bought her some kind of leopard-printed dress that matched her ring…and well, she said her new man’s got style.”

“He rich?” asks Jane. Rafael gives her an odd look, like he forgot she was there, eating her PB&J.

“Yeah, where you been?”

“Any kids?” I ask.

“Twins. Cute, too, although you wouldn’t think it, cause her new husband, some kind of Antoniohe’s got a dog’s face, dude. Guess you can be ugly when you’re rich.”

“That’s not very nice,” says Jane.

For some reason, I immediately feel sorry for her. She gets up from the table and  slumps from the room.

“What’s her problem?” says Rafael.

I shrug. “Bad weekend, I guess. ” But my eyes are still on the open door of the break room.

I get up then without thought. “I’m going for a smoke.”

Rafael looks up at me, startled and then he looks down at his paper plate and realizes he’s already eaten his chicken and he’s spilled his rice all over the table.

“You’re such a slob, man.”

He laughs as he swipes rice into the trash. “Wait up, will you?”

But I pretend I don’t hear him as I walk purposely from the room. I can hear him calling to me from down the hallway.

“Oh! And there’s also my cousin Mary-Patrice…”

 

Some Non-Fiction: Today’s Observation, a Conversation at the Lunch Table

I’ve been listening to David Sedaris’ Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls, at work for the last few days. His book is a collection of essays about his life and some short stories. For some reason, it inspired me to try a little bit of non-fiction writing. I do need to record more of what I do, and the conversations I have on a given basis. Mr. Sedaris apparently writes too much in his journal, or so he confesses.

Non-fiction isn’t always easy for me. I don’t know if writing about your life, and the people in it is easier for some – but for me, I have to hold onto the little bit of friends I have. So it is difficult for me to just let go. Being a writer is about writing truth…and I worry too much about what people think.

Anyway, the point is, I am trying to challenge myself to try something new. I do not write enough about my life, and that is a shame. As boring as it is, there’s got to be some gem amongst the stones, right? Right?  Ahaha. Here goes.


 A conversation at the lunch table.

“Someone stole my carrots!” I look down into my lunch bag at the lonely tub of hummus. It stares back at me blankly, smudgy, feeling like old cement.

“Well that’s just great!” I say as I shove my lunch away. “Now I have nothing to eat my hummas with.” The last part is said with a bit of a whine. If its one thing that pisses me off, it’s going hungry.

I look up to a stare from my fellow co-workers. The woman next to me gets an uncertain look. “Someone stole my soda once.”

“Seems unlikely,” says another woman, her hair is grey, long, down her back. “I mean, if it was a bag of chips…”

“At least you have pasta,” says another.  A young woman, who reads graphic novels and writes in a journal covered with cartoon characters. “I have this,” and she gestures towards a microwave pizza she bought in the vending machine. It’s one of those french bread kinds, that are usually better in an oven.

“How it is?” I ask, already a bit skeptical.

She shrugs. “It’s not as crunchy as I thought it would be.”

I respond with a thoughtful, “that’s too bad,” and make my way out of the break room. One thing I do like about my job: the people I work with. There are other things that leave much to be desired. A clean floor would be nice, for one.

“I suppose I could have left it on the counter…” I mumble a bit disappointed, turning the dial on my lock to shove my purse away in my locker. “But it sounded so much better being stolen. Other than me just being forgetful. You know, I was late to work this morning.”

The older woman with the long hair laughs. “And that’s your story and you’re sticking to it!”

“You’re darn right.”

I watch her head back up the stairs, back to work. Back to the monotony and a desk that smells like dust and sometimes burnt coffee. I’ll sometimes prop my folder up on my desk, to keep the computer from blowing hot air on my face. For some reason, this gives me a weird sense of victory. I suppose there is pleasure in the little things in life. Like I’ve beat the system. Like who cares if the computer may over-heat, at least my face is cool.

Back to work…back to work…

When I get home, I am hungry and tired, and I find a bag of carrot sticks sitting propped up against the microwave. I wave a fruit fly away.

“Think they’re still good?” I mutter, as I inspect the orange skin, that now looks dried and crackley, like they’ve been in the desert doing some serious time and not lounging serenely on my counter all day in an empty apartment.

My boyfriend gives a deep chuckle from the next room. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

I scrunch up my nose and laugh as I put them in the refrigerator, feeling suddenly like a little kid and then shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. How silly I was to think people would actually steal healthy food. Crunching carrots on the sly, isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Unless there’s some kind of crazed vegetarian out there, just ready to go postal.

I’m starting to think I should be on the look out for Bug’s Bunny. I’ve tried the “What’s up, dock?” thing to Michael while munching on a carrot before. He doesn’t find it attractive.

Ah, next time I suppose.

 

Flash Fiction: Smooth, Dark, World

Eh, just looking for some inspiration. Something different to write. Here goes…nothin’. Been having a hard time prioritizing my writing time again. This is something I definitely need to get into the swing of again. Found this writing prompt online via google. It was supposed to be for a poem, but suddenly I found myself in a fiction mood. 🙂


Writing Prompt: Write using all of the following words: smooth, soothe, work, dark…

It was a smooth, dark, night. A world full of purple and black. A night that touched the skin, and felt like velvet, a world that kissed and made promises.

He stood outside of the nightclub and held my hand. Across the street, the wind blew restlessly through the green trees in the small park. His eyes were wide and purple as they looked down at mine. I knew he had contacts in. I knew the diamond stud in his ear wasn’t real.

“Babe,” he said, as he held my hand. “Babe, I just need to focus on my career, on my work right now.”

I felt my stomach plummet. Suddenly, the street lights that tipped our shadows across the street, felt too-bright and intrusive. I stared up at him. Was his hair pink? Maybe blue? I batted at something that twinkled by his head.

I felt his grip tighten, or was he pulling me closer? “You’re drunk off your ass,” he said. “What else did you take? Acid?”

One didn’t need to take acid to discover how musical his voice was not. He enunciated something to me. I watched his soft mouth open wide and then purse together. Like a fish. Huh, fish lips. Fish gills. Fish and chips!

“Fish and chips?” He slapped my face. “Wake up!”

I stumbled back from him, moment gone. “I don’t need to wake up,” I blubbered as I touched at the blood coming down my nose. It was the drugs that made me weepy. It was the world that was taken away. It was the magic that had filled my head, and then was dumped out onto the street, useless, had lost its sparkle.

His skin was too pale anyway. His hair too black and greasy. He needed to focus on his music, right. Focus on a new pair of tits, and an ass that fit his hand better. Boy, I sure knew how to pick them.

I stumbled across the street.

“Adriene!” He called to my back. I ignored his grave voice. The wind that blew music through the trees was calling me. The smell of something new and fresh and not forgotten called me, soothed me.

The moon came alive on my face, then. The light that managed to trickle down into the city, lit all of the trees and the benches and the large grey stones next to the park’s entrance in a gray-blue light.

It was the fairies calling me. The fairies and soft green grass and a ground that fit just right. I imagined myself curling into the long grass, the tickle of wild flowers next to my face, and then I was doing just that. I was in the grass and in the dirt and I would lay there forever and never wake up.

Never wake up.

Flash Fiction: Testimony of Johnathan Lawrence, Murder Trial #4565

Um, I’m not really sure what happened here. I felt the pressure to write something new tonight, as I don’t want to disappoint those that have been looking for something new from me each night, but also because I really need to push myself to write everyday.

And when I push myself, I really do seem to surprise myself. Nothing is perfect, but it sure is entertaining sometimes. I also might be watching reruns of Bones tonight…which might act as some accidental inspiration. 😉

Happy Weekend everyone!


The Testimony of Johnathan Lawrence, Murder Trial #4565.

She’s got that look that she’s been used too many times. Like her face would have dried up, if she didn’t keep applying make up. Maybe last week she had a someone, maybe it was yesterday. What’s the term they use for women who have…let me say…”been around the bend?”

wpid-img_20150419_180345483.jpgAh, she had her uses I suppose. Her hair was that smooth, silky black, her eyes wounded, her lips pouty. I loved the way she chewed them when she was speaking to me. As if every word next out of that sticky, pink mouth was going to say something holy –  something worthy of remembering. She didn’t really have a sense of humor. It took her a while to get to the point. Or maybe that’s just because she thought too much about the answer. Thinks that maybe saying the wrong thing will get her hit again. Just how it happened when she was ten, just how it happened when she first slept with her ex-boyfriend.

[The first lawyer asks the witness] Did you hit her John?

No! I didn’t hit her! What kind of jackass do you think I am? I just like it when she did what she does. You know…down there. God, the magic of a woman’s mouth. You know, I liked it when she got real slippery…would giggle like a little girl. [Someone clears their throat. Probably the lawyer]. Huh. So that’s why she looked so wounded. You’d think she’d have figured out that’s not the way to be. Turns a man off, you know? I guess all the hitting made her stupid. She sure was nice to look at, though.

What was the name she gave me? Hell, if I remember. Anita? No, Laura? Yes, Laura. Laura Tippleton. She told me that she liked to go downtown sometimes at Midnight. That’s where they would find her. You know…her “conquests.” [Witness laughs]. That’s where she found me.

[The second lawyer, this one female asks:] Did she like to go down to the river?

Well, I guess. Maybe she would skip rocks or something like that. Fish. You know, she used to say if you look at the surface of the water long enough you could see the future, I just thought she got hit in the head too many times.

[The first lawyer looks up from the table where he sits next to a young man; a greasy young man who is hand cuffed and wears an orange jump suit.]

[The female lawyer asks] Do you think she saw anything in the river?

[The witness on the stand looks puzzled. He rubs at the grizzle on his face. Adjusts his red cap with oil-stained fingers.]

[The judge begs him to answer the question.]

[The witness’s eyes cross and his mouth works, then pauses, and then he speaks.] I guess not then, huh? Because that’s where they found her, isn’t? Hell, you never know the finality of life until it is staring you in the face. Plum, staring you in the face. Would have been nice of the river to tell her that. Maybe they wouldn’t have found her like they did. I wish I could have told her that. I, well…I’m sorry I couldn’t remember her name.

[The female lawyer gives him a long, hard look, but it is not completely unkind. Her eyes glance, just once over to the judge. She speaks.]   No further questions.

A start at Flash-fiction: Smelling Sunshine

Just some musings in the car parking lot while I was waiting for my boyfriend to get out of work this afternoon. I’ve been trying to push my self to write more and more this week and it’s funny how comfortable I seem to be writing in the oddest of places.

Put me in front of my desk at home in my office and suddenly there’s everything else to do and check out. Like youtube. And facebook, and of course, 5 amazingly awesome recipes and articles and gah! I am a terrible person sometimes.

I’m actually pretty proud of this. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but I’ll call it a start to some flash fiction, which I want to try to write more of. I do consider myself a fiction writer afterall, but…I’m having fun dabbling in a little bit of everything at the moment.

I hope everyone is having a great evening. Happy Writing!


Smelling Sunshine

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I blink, unable to see. The glare from the cars in the parking lot blind me; their busty trunks and fenders glisten, catching the day’s brilliance in colors of blue, gray, white and green. I can hear the brrrrggh of cars running and the rumbling cough and sputter of a car that doesn’t want to start.

The cool air blows through my car window and it smells like exhaust, tires and left-over winter, but its icicle-taste has gone stale in my mouth. Spring is in the air now and the world looks cheery, full of fake promises; like when a person says one thing and means another.

Sure, the world can look great on the outside if it wants to. The sky that robin’s egg blue, with white wispy clouds so high up, you wonder if the scientists up in space can see what you see. But inside and outside, everything and everyone is often something different.

Take this person. She is average height. Average looks with a plain T-shirt with writing on that stretches across her boobs, that says something obscene like “Bob’s Big Ones,” that makes you read what it says and everything else underneath.

Maybe she shouldn’t have left the house in those sweat pants. But she looks tired. Her brown hair is pulled back in a pony tail, and she wears a harassed expression. She’ll thank the cashier who wishes her a great day as she grabs her groceries, but inside she’s really thinking: God, just one more day. Am I really where I’m meant to be?

An old man in the deli misses his late wife of fifty years. A middle-aged woman clutches a tomato in her hand in the middle of the produce and worries her husband is having an affair with his secretary; this is just the color of lipstick that she would wear. A college student with braids, glasses and uni-brow, listens to music and thinks about geology as she grabs at a container of hummus.

Every life’s a puzzle, and every puzzle a piece of the mystery. We are never what we say we are, and that includes the weather. Maybe that’s why I have this feeling that something bad is about to happen. I can just hear my mother right now: Oh, stop, you are being ridiculous. My boyfriend would tell me I am being dramatic.

But it’s there waiting for you. Waiting…Waiting…Waiting for you to….Strike! Just kidding. Waiting for you to wake up and open your eyes and smell the sunshine.

And I’ll see and see, and breathe it in as long as I can.

Life is what that is. Life.

Short Story Page Update: “Endtown”

Today is a lazy day. I meant to run errands, but it’s dismally cold out there, and there is hot coco in the cabinet and cold pizza in a fridge, and what with that waiting for me, what more can a girl want? 😉

How about some writing and a short story update? I have added my story “Endtown” to my short story’s page, which you can view up there ^ at the top of this website or here.


endtownEndtown

The short story focuses on Genevieve, a teenager who died way too early. Both her and the friends she makes there are in Limbo, or “the in-between,” in neither Heaven or Hell. They are the Watchers; the eyes that no one sees on earth, silently helping the Angels fight a war between the demons.

The thing they never tell you when you are saying your goodbyes: how quiet death is. For a long time she felt like she existed, except there are no formal introductions to the places you wake up in. In Sunday school she learned it this way: You go to Heaven if you are good; Hell is for the sinners and the unclean. But what she didn’t know, was that there were places that existed for the In-Between. Limbo wasn’t just for those who slept and never woke up.


It was the story I did as a continuation story on here. I was very proud with the characters and story that came out of it. I can certainly see the potential for more stories to come from this. 🙂

Happy Writing!

Oh, and for those doing NaNoWriMo, are you doing so much better than me? Is someone actually getting some writing done? (siigh). Best of luck to us all!

Part 4: Endtown (a short story)

There’s no excuse. I should have got this out to you guys on Thursday, and I am sorry. I won’t let writer’s fear get the best of me, or quit when the going gets rough. Whew. I am a strong, confident writer who can succeed and that’s that!

Anyway, here’s Part 4 of what was supposed to be Thursday night’s post. If you missed the previous post, you can view them on last week’s post Here. You will also find links to Part 1 and 2 there as well.

Endtown

0407131926aSo far, the story focuses on Genevieve, a young teen who died way too early. Both her and her friends find themselves in Limbo, or “the in-between,” in neither Heaven or Hell. They are offered the chance to make a difference in the war that the Angels are still fighting against the demons, who are trying to take over the earth.

Part 4:

The demon was still looking at them. “Your Master doesn’t know, does he?” He grinned, and Genevieve shuddered. His teeth were filed down to points, for gnawing on flesh.

“What are you going to do?” said Genevieve.

He looked the three of them over. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

          THE demon just stood there looking at them. Gen squirmed as she felt her stomach drop to her feet. Her skin itched; it felt like a hundred stinging ants were crawling across her stomach. She was burning. Her forehead was sweating. “He’s going to burn us from the inside out!” she gasped. Gaven and Gillian both groaned suddenly and dropped to their knees.

“Make him stop!” cried Gillian as he moved onto all fours.

“Do what?” cried Genevieve as she struggled to stay upright.

“There’s nothing to do,” gasped Gaven. “We’re already dead.”

“That you are,” said a voice that was familiar, and scary at the same time.

And there he stood next to the ugly bald-headed demon, looking resplendent in his white suit, and colored sunglasses. His face was slightly rough with a day’s worth of scruff, but other than that, the master looked smooth and handsome and powerful.

“Why are you here, Lyle? I hear your master is half-way around the world right now,” he said.

And then the pain fell away. Genevieve fell onto all fours next to the boys.

The demon named Lyle turned toward the master slowly. He scrunched up his already ugly face into a scowl. “Samyaza.”

“Please,” said the Master. “Samuel is fine.”

“Your name doesn’t matter to me,” hissed Lyle. “Who are you to question where I am?”

“It matters when you hurt,” (he said as he glanced at the three teenagers,) “Those that are close to me.”

Lyle spat on the ground, and the dirt hissed and sizzled where his spit fell. “In-betweeners.”

“We prefer the term, “Watchers,” said Samuel.

“You think you scare me? You are no more welcome in heaven than I.”

“We have been pardoned,” he said and the ground seemed to swell under his feet. He was growing, no, he was rising. Genevieve saw the wings sprouting out from his back. He seemed to glow with a faint light. “Would you like to see?” he said.

“Save your holiness,” gnashed Lyle between pointy teeth. He glanced at the smoldering wreck of the train. “My work is done here anyway.” He turned into the darkness and disappeared.

“Oh man,” said Gill as he slapped Gaven on the back as they both got to their feet. “That was a close one!” But he quieted as their Master, Samuel, turned towards them.

“Stay out of trouble, I said. Watch the town, I said. See what sort of exports are coming in. Are you three incapable of following instructions? Or are you just stupid?!”

Genevieve flinched as she scrambled to her feet. His wings were still extended and although she couldn’t see his eyes beneath his green-blue sunglasses, she didn’t need to. She’d seen his eyes flash a silver and gold in a rage before.

“It was my fault.” She stepped forward as the two boys bowed their heads. “I told Gaven I thought there was something on the train. We came to investigate. Gill found us later.”

“I don’t care what happened,” said the Master. “We can’t let them get the best of us, again.” He turned his head and his sunglasses flashed a teal color. “Do you even know what happened with the train? What they blew up?”

“We were working on that when you showed up,” mumbled Gaven.

“Shut up,” said the Master, and then he jerked his head over to the wreck behind him and moved a smoldering piece of wood out of his path and set it down gently. “Well, let’s get this sorted out.”

Genevieve never seemed to know which side their Master was on. And it bothered her more than she cared to admit. Hot and cold, he ran. Like two different types of weather. It was exhausting.

Yes, the Watchers, or In-Betweeners were pardoned, but if being forced out of Heaven to live on Earth was punishment, it certainly felt like it. They were alone. One of a kind, and yet never resting. Sometimes Genevieve felt like she ran a marathon that never ended, and she was always dying of thirst.

She watched the Master turn over a burning log and pick up a smoldering box. She or the two boys would have been burned by the heat, but Samuel was a lot older than them. And he had his wings. She wondered if they would ever get a chance to earn wings.

“What is it?” she asked him.

The Master cursed and threw the smoldering box into to dirt. “Food,” he hissed.

“Those fucking bastards,” said Gaven.

Samuel’s sunglasses flashed as he turned towards him. “Watch it.”

“So?” said Gillian. “What will that do? There’s plenty of food, here.”

The Master jerked his head toward her. “Tell them.”

“Well…not really,” said Genevieve.

“What do you mean?” said Gaven. “What did we just eat a few hours ago?” he laughed. “Dirt?”

“No, and the new districts are fine,” (she glanced around) “Here in old town is different.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Gaven.

“There’s a lot of poverty here. People depend on the free shipments the train brings in. Mostly stuff from the government. Goes into food pantries and the like.”

“The free shipments cut down on stealing,” said the Master. “The government finally found out that people were starving and stealing for food and they did something about it.”

“So without the food to keep people off the streets?” said Gaven, but he didn’t expect an answer.

“Well, shit,” said Gillian. “Mama ain’t gonna like this.”

“Shut up,” said Gaven as he smacked him in the head. “There will be riots over this stuff, idiot. We got our work cut out for us.”

“My foster parents are even depending on it,” said Genevieve.

“We’ll see that they are taken care of,” said The master.

“Great,” said Genevieve as she looked down at herself. “Is that all we’re taking care of? When can I be myself again?”

She thought she saw the Master grimace before he turned away. It was his fault that she found herself in the form of a twelve-year-old. It was her punishment, he had said. She shouldn’t have been sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

But all Genevieve had been trying to do was make a difference in this world. Wasn’t that what they were here for anyway?

 

To Be Continued…Tune in next Thursday for more!

Happy Writing!

Short Story: “Panda”

I wrote this a few years ago as a writing prompt in one of my creative writing classes. I am having a great time digging these random stories out and sharing, otherwise they just lay there forgotten and some of them are amusing (at least to me!)

I think the prompt was something along the lines of:  A panda reads Kafka and visits New York City.


When I was a kid, I was obsessed with Pandas. I had a panda bedspread, and wallpaper and curtains. Also TONS of stuffed animals.

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with Pandas. I had a panda bedspread, and wallpaper and curtains. Also TONS of stuffed animals.

“Panda”

The panda was having a hard time of it. The world was too big and lonely and it was hard for anyone, he thought, much less a panda, an endangered species, to find a companion in this world.

On a hope, he went to New York City. He read Kafka on the airplane as the old lady next to him peered at him over her spectacles and slapped irritably at some of the white fur which kept falling on her scarf.

The ten year old on his other side fell fast asleep and hugged him close and breathed him in, like he was a vast pillow pet.

He ordered two mojitos. He asked politely to the stewardess if she wouldn’t mind to please, please turn that Tropical Thunder down, it was giving him a headache. She had stared at him.

At the airport, the panda had a hard time finding his luggage. The baggage claim people were rude to him and people kept staring. Sure, he was a large panda. All pandas were and if he was a panda that happened to like Khaki shorts and large brightly colored tropical t-shirts, why so let it be. By the end of the day, he needed a drink.

He went to a club. One of those fancy kinds in Manhattan where all the cool, under-aged kids go. He ordered a mojito that cost him close to twenty dollars. He tried to find a corner to himself. Perhaps the club hadn’t been a good idea.

Outside in the fresh air, the Panda decided to regroup. He thought about all the things he wanted to do in NYC. It was perfect night for a walk.

Two blocks away from the club, he saw a woman several feet ahead of him stumbling up the sidewalk, swaying back and forth in a dance to the music in her head.

She was tall and wore a dark green dress, silver pumps and silver eyeglasses and red lipstick. Her hair was a vivid red.

“Are you hurt? Can I help you?” asked the Panda once he had hobbled up to her.

The woman swayed where she stood. “Who the hell are you?”

He put out an arm. She grabbed at his fur, nearly tipped over and tugged some tuffs of hair out. He gritted his teeth as he folded his arm around her waist and she leaned against him as they stumbled along.

“You’re quite hairy,” she observed. “Don’t you shave?”

“No,” said the panda.

“Black and white too…how old are you?” said the woman.

“Not too old.”

“Can you help me get home? I think my ride’s missing.”

“Yes. I could do that.”

“You’re such a nice one. So soft, and caring,” said the woman, as they swayed along.

“Yes, I am,” said the panda.

“And you listen…oh, why can’t all men be like you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Such big arms you have too!” She laughed. “I like such large shoulders on my man.”

The panda felt his face warm. “I work out.”

“I can tell…oh such, lovely, lovely fur you have!”

Fur? Yes, yes…he did have fur…

The woman stopped dead on the sidewalk as she looked up at him. “Wait a minute…”

“Yes?” said the Panda, daring not to move.

“You’re so very tall too!”

He sighed as she clutched his large arm in both of hers as they wobbled down the street.

Update: Schedule of Posts, and My short story, Endtown

It took me a while to figure it out, (probably longer than it should have) but I will be posting each Monday and Thursday night, with the weekends and days in between left for miscellaneous posts.

Thursday is of course the night where I will  post a short story, with a little bit more added to the story each post.

0407131926

The story is titled “Endtown,” which is turning into a paranormal/young adult short story. So far, the story focuses on Genevieve, a young teen who died way too early. Both her and her friends find themselves in Limbo, or “the in-between,” in neither Heaven or Hell. They are offered the chance to make a difference in the war that the Angels are still fighting against the demons, who are trying to take over the earth.

So far it is great practice for me, a journey-into-plot-as-I-go experience and so far I am loving it!

Last night, I posted more on “Endtown” a little later than I had planned, so if you missed it, you can view it Here. You will also find parts 1 and 2 there as well.

I hope everyone has a great weekend!

Happy Writing!