Saturday, December 10, 2011

Lil-Bit Of Fluff

Setting: My mother and I were sitting on the couch with Lil-Bit lounging on my mother's arm.

Me: She's so cute!

My Mother: Indeed she is, the insolent piece of fluff!

The Complete Story Hansel and Gretel, Retold and Revised

Once upon a time there were two children. The older was a young boy named Hansel and the younger was his sister, Gretel. They had a stepmother that loved them, but because she was a stepmother the children were inclined to hate her. One day Hansel decided to wake up early and walk in the woods, as usual he dragged his little sister behind him. She was not quite right in the head and he believed anything she told him. This was, indeed, a recipe for disaster.

As the two children skipped along the path the smell of freshly baked bread reached their little noses. The greedy little boogers turned from the path and ran towards the source of the sent. Eventually, a small cottage came into view. It was a charming little abode, with flower boxes beneath the windows and trim around the edge of the roof. The occupant of this cottage was a little old lady that sold herbs at the county fair. Gretel took one look at the house and squealed.

"Oh, Hans! Look Hans! Look! It's a ginormous gingerbread house!" The little girl could barely contain herself and rushed to the door, where she proceeded to gnaw upon the doorknob. Hansel, never to be left out on something, started licking the window sill.

"Are you hungry?" A little old lady had walked around the house with dirt on her blouse and a basket of vegetables in her arms.

"Yes, Ma'am. Very," Hansel pulled his little sister away from the door as he spoke. The old crone didn't need to know that they had been eating her house if she was going to feed them.

"Well, my name is Lillian Rain," the old lady crooned as she opened her door, showing no signs of noticing the drool on the doorknob, "What would your names be?"

"Hansel and Gretal Anderson."

"Well aren't those lovely names! Do come inside."

Once inside Ms. Rain fed the children till they were bursting and taught Gretal how to cook a few dishes. Consequentially Hansel ate more food than he should have, and gained nearly twenty pounds. Sadly Gretel was terrified of the large oven in the kitchen and told Hansel that Ms. Rain was a witch that planned to eat them. Ever willing to be a hero, Hansel shoved poor Ms. Rain into her own oven, closed the oven's door, and padlocked it. The screams were heard over a mile away.

It was those screams that brought Mr. Anderson to Ms. Rain's abode. When he arrived he found Gretel gnawing on the doorknob and Hansel crying (he had eaten so much he couldn't walk). In order to keep his children form being thrown down a volcano, he told the public that his wife had taken the children into the woods in order to be rid of them, where the children met a witch that attempted to eat them. Thanks to Hansel the world was now free of one more witch. He threw in the part about his wife (the children's stepmother), because she was starting to cost too much. She couldn't not buy shoes.


Saturday, December 3, 2011

A Late Update On Goings On

Technically this post is not late. We are currently in a time referred to as the Holidays. Holidays. Plural. Thanksgiving is a part of that. I made deviled eggs with my mother, before visiting my grandparents, that were very tasty. The Sunday after Thanksgiving I made deviled eggs entirely on my own. They did not turn out as planned. There was too much vinegar. My father didn't mind. Black Friday was spent at home with my brother, avoiding the Black (Friday) Plague.

We have two new additions in our household collection of felines. A black male kitten named Insta-Purr and a calico female kitten called Lil-Bit. The Lady of Shed-Lots is not pleased with the kittens and hisses anytime an encounter occurs.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

And This is Good for Me?

We had vaccinations at work. A needle slid into my upper left arm and out fairly quickly, I didn't panic like many coworkers said they would have either (I'm not really afraid of needles), but I don't think it went very well. I am in pain. It feels like someone gave me a good whack with a hammer. A simple touch is more than similar to being slapped on a big bad bruise. I don't have a bruise, but my nerves must think I do. Pain really makes you think about things and come up with some good questions, including:

How can something be good for me if it hurts? That makes as much sense as a lobotomy.

Why the upper left arm?

I never knew how much my upper left arm comes into contact with objects.

Shouldn't I be able to feel less pain each year with these shots? Muscles build throughout time and repair themselves. Logically I shouldn't be able to feel shots anymore.

Will things ever STOP touching my arm?!?!

I really notice pain when it's things like shots, but I don't feel much after the numbing stuff, that is injected into me before the dermatologist removes some of my flesh, wears off. Weird.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

A Blog Post About Bloging That Includes A Short Story About A Werewolf

This is me, being a terrible person. I feel really really guilty that I haven't posted since September 12th, and I have had people view this blog fairly regularly. Well, unless of course the "stats" that Blogger is providing me with aren't mine... if that is the case, I feel really sorry for whoever would end up with my "stats". Seriously though, for those of you that do read my writing, I appreciate it. To look at the "stats" and see that almost everyday one or two people have looked at my blog makes me incredibly happy. It's really easy to get depressed when I see that people haven't commented, but at least I know you're there even if you are invisible. I am not someone who comments on other blogs either, but just this once, even if you decide to never again read my blog, comment. Writers NEED to be told how we are doing. If I have terrible grammar or use the wrong "there" (or "their" or "they're") tell me. It helps out a lot. If I'm doing well tell me. Sometimes I need a little encouragement.

Now, to today's true purpose. Tomorrow is Halloween. Almost everyone has dressed up, or told a scary story around this time of year. Today's goal for me is to tell you a possibly scary story. What should it be about? Radio active kittens? Street prowling grannies that beat innocent trick-or-treating children up in allies with big purses? Spiders that can control people's minds? Narcoleptic zombies? None of those. At least not this time. Maybe next year. This year is the year of the pyromaniac 18 year old werewolf named Steve, that happens to be germaphobic when in his wolf state. He lives in 21st century London, England. It may not turn out to be scary, but we'll see where it takes us.

Steve glanced out his window. The moon would soon rise over the tall buildings, living in a tall city helped keep the wolf a bay a little longer. He flipped his lighter open, closed, open, closed, open, closed. A pointed pain began to eat at his side. It was as if a small sharp toothed animal were trying to eat its way out. He shook his head, tossing dark curls a little to the side. Groaning, Steve stood up and walked into the cellar and locked the door. The only way out now was the slightly large doggy door that lead outside. He had learned from experience that letting the wolf into his house was not a good idea. It only resulted in torn up furniture and missing house shoes. The wolf preferred to be outside where the streets were (some of them) unexplored and the meat was fresh. Speaking of the wolf, the change finished rather quickly once Steve let himself go limp on the floor. I will not describe it, as the change churns the stomach of even the most experienced individual. The wolf scrambled to its feet and shook its glossy black fur.

The wolf was a dignified member of The Committee of the Werewolves of London (C.W.L.). He liked to be called Unferth. The only thing that he had in common with Steve was black fur, in Steve's case hair, and a love of fire (the human part of any wolf was completely unaware of the C.W.L.). He also liked long walks in the park and quiet midnights with a fresh bone to gnaw upon.

Unferth padded over to the bowl of Germ-Ex that Steve had thoughtfully placed near the doggy door and dipped his paws in. Not only is fire beautiful, but it also cleanses of germs even if only temporarily, Unferth thought to himself. What he wanted was to stay inside, away from germs, but Steve had become very careful to lock the door, so indoors was not an option. Bravely he pushed through the doggy door into the germ filled place that is London.

Approximately eight hours later half of London was on fire, multiple people had been ripped to shreds, all the cats that had been outside were up trees, and it was to be blamed on the C.W.L., well most of it was. The fire was completely Unferth's fault.


Monday, September 12, 2011

The Importance of September

Friday was the ninth of September. If you have read this post then you should know what that means. TWO YEARS!!!! The boyfriend is something special. Two years ago we barely knew each other. I still feel like I know know him well enough, but I know more than I did then.

Ten years ago (from Sunday) was 9-11. People died. There were children that waited at home for mommys and daddys that never came returned, parents that tried to contact their children, and people who rushed into the chaos to save strangers.

Dear Americans,

We have survived so much. We are young compared to other places, but we are still strong. When we lost all those lives ten years ago, we ran in to help, cried for people we didn't know, and prayed that there were survivors. People still trudge to work, children still go to school, and life seems normal. We were never the same after 9-11. Security was raised and people still cry over or are at least saddened by a picture of the twin towers, whole and complete. We'll never think like we did before. As Americans we still stand.

Kara Smith

This September, this special month, remember those we lost and celebrate the lives we have.

All Things End

A tear,
down the porcelain slope
of her soft cheek.
For hours and hours
tears stain their way
down her face.

The sight
of the body,
in a way unnatural,
is too much
for her little heart.

The matted
bloody fur
is stroked,
over and over.
As if to caress
life back
into the cold form

This is how she learns,
that all things end.
The loss of a friend
that still hurts,
no matter the time
that passes.

Get Me An Orange

Get me an orange,
me matey!
Give me a nice apple too.
I've caught me the scurvy
and you have too.

We'll capture some vessels
and raid us them fridges,
in the hopes of a plum
or a pear.
If we find us some fruit
my life'll be spared.
Go find yer own,
I'm not sharin'.

Amethysts 'ave lost their luster.
I'd rather see a grape.
The shipmates be droppin'
faster den de flies
and the fishies have full bellys.
We've got to survive
this curse o' the seas
and out live this plauge.

Get me an orange,
me matey!
Give me a nice apple too.
I've caught me the scurvy
and so have you.

Monday, August 29, 2011

A Part of Love

A voice,
indistinct over the phone.
A calm,
flooding warmth through you.
A giggle,
bursting from you.
is only a part of love.

The Stage

You step from behind the curtain,
makeup and costume obscuring your identity.
The lights shine in your eyes,
you cannot see the audience.

Practices were frequent.
A lot had been changed last time.
You take a breath and say your lines,
and then you are yourself no longer.

As sound comes from you,
you become the character.
The stage is not simply a stage,
but your school, your home, your world.

Then suddenly,
the lines stop.
The scene has ended.
Your part is done.

The music plays
and you depart,
yet as you step off the stage
you know,
that you
cannot come back.

Each time is slightly different.
Each time there is something different wrong,
but each time
the stage is only the world.

Fairy Tales Cannot Be Trusted

Once upon a time there was a beutiful young woman who fell in love with a prince. So deeply did she love him that she refused to consider marrying another man. One day the prince married the princess of a neighboring kingdom, but still the young woman would not entertain the thought of loving someone else. She died poor, old, and alone. The prince never knew and if he had he wouldn't have cared.


(Because Fairy Tales can be wrong.)

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Child Discipline, part 1

My sister and I would fight a lot when we were little, just like all the siblings of the world. My mother was a smart woman and would separate us if the situation was dire enough. One time, before I shared a room with my sister, she sent us to our rooms for an hour. My sister and I had been given walkie talkies a while before. Which means a few days or months, because I can't exactly remember.

My sister and I spoke softly to each other. Her room was upstairs and mine was right next to my mother's desk,which is where she pretty much lived. We didn't fight and were very kind to each other. My mother went to each of us and told us that the time was up and we could leave our rooms. Whichever one of us was notified first told the other before Mom had traversed the stairs.


My sister was eleven and it was my eighth birthday. For almost a month, my sister had been locking herself in our play room and avoiding me. I had tried to go in with her, but she always made me leave. Needless to say, I was not happy with her, but that all changed when she gave me my birthday present from her. A stuffed kitty. It wasn't just any kitty either. It was a hand sewn and stuffed kitty with fabric that did not match. My very own sister had painstakingly created a friend for me from fabric, thread, cotton, and a piece of her heart.

His name was Growltiger. She had made him based on the description of Growltiger in the song sung about him in the musical Cats, a VHS that played at least once a month in our house. Fabric was bunched up where his short legs met the body to fit with, "he was baggy at the knees". One ear had a part cut out of it, because, "one ear was somewhat missing". Then he had a patch over his right eye for, "he scowl upon the hostile world from one forbidding eye". My sister had also tried to embroider a belt with a sword in it. Admittedly he wasn't the best made stuffed animal, but, for an eight year old, it was a work of art.

I loved him. Every night he slept with me and my panda. The panda had always been with me for as long as I could remember. Soon Growltiger had a story that tied into that of my panda. The panda was a waitress and Growltiger was a pirate that fell in love with her. She would have nothing to do with him, however, until he gave up being a pirate. Being deeply in love with her, he did give up piracy only to find that her family (I had a lot of stuffed pandas and they were all related to my favorite in some way) had engaged her to a tap dancing panda (a marionette). He then dueled the panda and, being an ex-pirate, won. Growltiger then married his love and helped her run the seafood restaurant.

Even when I reached the age that most people consider "too old" for stuffed animals, I slept with Growltiger and his panda love. My mother had often patched up his arms when the stitching came undone, so he had a few "scars". Growltiger still became an old cat. The paint rubbed off of his button nose, the eye under his eye patch came out and broke, his left eye lost some gold paint, and worst of all his fabric wore down, so that it had holes in it that could not be fixed. I still slept with him and the panda. Then one day, I woke up and found cotton in my bed from Growltiger's stuffing. I had two choices. I could throw him in the trash or put him somewhere safe. It was then that I put together my memory box that grows heavier with time. Growltiger had survived eight long years with me. I cried the night after he was put into the retirement in my closet. His girlfriend stayed with me where she always had been.

I took my box down from the shelf today and opened it. One button eye that had lost most of its paint stared up at me. I scoped him out of the box and held him in a hug. He stayed there, limp in my arms. I wanted to cry seeing how worn he was. I will always love this cat. He has been such a big part of my life.

HERE is a link to the poem Growltiger's Last Stand from Ole Possum's Book of Practical Cats, my sister's inspiration for my stuffed kitty.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

50 Uses For a Brick

This started as something to keep me occupied in my free time. If someone hurts themselves or others using these uses, it's their fault and I'm not to blame. Just want to make that perfectly clear. Also, please remember to cite if you uses these.

Obvious Uses

A bookend

A paperweight

A doorstop

Something to hold things down outside

A blunt weapon

Building material


Hide and Seek: The seeker has a bag of bricks, which makes them slower and easier to run away from. However, when the seeker sees someone that is not on base, not already out, and playing the game, the seeker throws a brick at the player. If the player is hit with a brick, the player is out. Last one standing and not the seeker wins.

Jacks: This is a two player game. Player One throws the brick at Player Two and picks up as many pebbles as possible before hearing the brick make contact. Remember to take turns.

Stack the Brick: Build a tower with bricks. See how high you can make it before it falls on your head.

Brick the Bucket: Throw bricks at a bucket until it has been properly demolished.


Pet brick: You don't have to feed, clean up after, or groom this lovely pet.

Painting canvas: Paint the brick. Six different surfaces included.

A tool for fixing computers

A tool for creative writing prompts: Not that I have ever heard of a teacher asking for 50 uses for a brick. (hehe)

False cell phone: Paint on a few buttons on and attach an antenna of some sort.

Soap: Scrub hard enough and all the dirt will come off.

A projectile: Just find or build a catapult.

Instant messaging: Write your message on the brick and throw it through the recipient's window.

Tool for making paint: Gather plants, berries, and/or bugs and mash them with a brick. Different combinations will make different colors. Poison Ivy makes a beautiful green.

A stage: ... for bugs.

A taser: Carry this around in your purse and hit creepers with it.

Wind gauge: Place a brick outside in view of a window. If the brick doesn't move it wont kill you to go outside. If the brick flies away, then it probably will.

Small child entertainment system: Seat a small child before a brick and tell said child to scream when it grows legs and walks away.

False chocolate: Cover the brick in mud, let it dry, put it in tin foil, and give it to your younger sibling. For almonds, peanuts, etc. add rocks.

A plate: Okay, a smallish plate, but it's still a plate.

Musical instrument: Different kinds and sizes of glass make different sounds when you smash them with a brick.

Art: Put a brick on the bookshelf, mantelpiece, or some other place where people will notice it. Say it is art and no one will argue.

A therapist: Dress up, draw on, and paint the brick until it looks trustworthy. Tell it all your deepest sorrows.

A dentist: Why pay a bill to get rid of that sore tooth?

The ideal boss: Mr. Brick never yells at, docks the pay of, or fires his employees.

A form of currency: Why not?

Shoes: Attach straps and you have sandals or flip-flops (one size only).

Reusable spider killer: Just remember to wash afterwards.

Remote control: Point a brick at someone and tell them to do as you say. Chances are, they will.

Anti medication: Powder the brick and ingest in order to be sick. Enough brick powder may kill you, but not if you put it into the tomato soup you gave your noisy neighbor.

A writer's block breaker: Hit anything hard enough with a brick and it will break.

The perfect gift: Who doesn't want a brick?

A coaster: Larger than a normal coaster, but does that really matter?

A doodily-whooper: Whatever a doodily-whooper is, I am sure a brick can be applied to it.

Instrument of persuasion: If you hold a brick menacingly enough anyone can be persuaded to agree with you.

Student discipline: This needs no explanation.

A weight: Sometimes you just need something that weighs the same as a brick.

A candle: Attach a sting on one end to a brick and light the other end on fire. Keep away from flammable objects.

Emergency brake: When a small(ish) person comes careening towards you on a bicycle (this is clearly an emergency situation),throw a brick at the child. It will stop advancing. Remember to leave swiftly, before a worried/enraged mother arrives on the scene.

A friend: You won't fight with it and it will never betray you or think you're stupid.

False book: Disguise a brick to look like a book and give it to a friend. Watch them try to open it.

Warmer: Heat the brick and hold it in your frozen fingers or rest your icy toes on it.

Cooling device: Put a brick in the freezer for a long period of time then apply to something that needs to be cooled. Example: a sick child's forehead.

A nightlight: Coat the brick in glow-in-the-dark paint and leave it in the light for several hours. Once it is dark where you would like to place it you can put it there and enjoy it's light.

Growth stunter: Attach a brick to the head of someone you don't want to grow. If they continue to grow add more bricks.

Smiley Faces

People are always making faces using letters and symbols. It happens in texts, facebook, and a couple other places. I sometimes make up my own. The following are of my own imagination and if someone else has already made them before me, I was unaware.

someone in a hat

in my crate

:| >--
someone in a tie


upside down

must... not... smile...

I've got a pointy nose!

: || )

look to the side...

sleepy puppy

[ ] :)
out of my crate


Oooooh! Sparkles!

Killing the Darkness

I wrote this last summer and why I did not blog it is beyond me. Nevertheless, here it is.

Watching for meteors, I saw the Milkyway for the first time since I moved last summer. A light smudge against the dark. Stars I hadn't seen for a year danced, and I was happy.Then I saw one: a meteor. Its shape somewhat resembled a bird with a ribbon trailing behind. It was brighter than my stars, but lasted only for a few seconds before vanishing. I was afraid to step out into the grass to see if I could spot more. We have snakes. The stars sparkled and I left the porch. The view was not very different and I saw no more meteors. I went back to the porch and laid down to stare upward.I found comfort in the stars I had lost so long ago. They reminded me that I am ever so small. Calm followed and I let my thoughts roam. I had missed the comfort in the dark. People aren't afraid of the dark, but what is in the dark. Stars kill that fear. They give us sight where we see not. Another meteor zipped by grabbing my attention. My eyes searched for more, but only found an airplane that from below looked remarkably like a flying Christmas tree. That night I only saw three meteors, but was satisfied having seen the stars again. Knowing I'm not a big thing makes me feel so much less stressed than normal. I was glad to see my old friends that kill the fears in the dark. That kill the fears. That kill the darkness.

Andrew the Armadillo

Once, in a little wood, lived a little gray armadillo. His name was Andrew, and all day long he would dig around looking for food. One day Andrew was continuing his search by the lily pond. Now Andrew knew never to go on The Big Black River, because his uncle Ferdinand had died there, but it was so cold that Andrew would do anything to warm up. He had heard that The Big Black River was always warm, so despite almost certain death he headed out. Andrew skirted the pond, crossed the field, and at last reached The Big Black river, where he sat down right in the middle
Suddenly a big shiny beast came roaring towards him! Andrew was so surprised he jumped straight into the air. Andrew landed just in time to run away, and from that day on he never went to The Big Black River no matter how cold it was.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Attack of the Killer Migraine

Monday I spent all day on the computer. That was not a smart idea. I left the screen to eat my dinner and noticed a small blur that was vaguely lemon shaped in the corner of my vision on the right side. It grew and grew until I was robbed of my right peripheral vision. It's called an aura. They usually show up before you have a migraine. I took medication, took the thickest blanket off of my bed, moved the fan as close as possible to the bed, and turned the fan on high, before I went to bed. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. The migraine mercilessly commenced to keep me awake and in great pain.

Ever since I was little I have kept a plastic bucket beside my bed. I still do. This bucket is called my Barf Buddy. Barf Buddy came in handy Monday night. I sat up and opened my mouth over the bucket I clutched in my hands. Barf does not need help coming out. It never has. The most you can do is open your mouth and hope it doesn't get everywhere. Between waves of barf, I made my way to the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid, and redirected the vomit from my bucket to the toilet. I continued to barf and at one point it came up so hard some went out my nose. When my body had decided it was done, I tried to flush it down.

The toilet did not want to swallow my stomach contents. I could relate, but never the less, I grabbed the plunger and commenced to force it down the porcelain throat. There was one part of my former food that really did not want to go down. After consulting my sister, it was discovered to be a tomato skin or at least part of one. I cleaned up my Barf Buddy and went to the kitchen for some ice water.

My father came up the stairs and asked if I was okay. I told him I was. We stood there for a moment. Him, looking at me in the concerned way fathers do and me, drinking my ice water. I eventually went back to bed and finally fell asleep. I don't know what time I fell asleep, but I woke up around eleven.

I spent the day on the recliner with my sister watching me. For the first half hour it was nice to have her do stuff for me to spare me from the sudden throbbing pain quick movement caused me. In the middle of the movie Labyrinth (The volume was down low because if it was loud enough my brain would melt.) I stood up to fetch myself a glass of ice water. My sister protested, gently pushed me back down, and went to get the glass herself. At that moment I decided that a bowl of sandwich meat would be tasty. I stood back up and went to the kitchen. As soon as my sister heard the bowl clinking against the others, she spun around and glared at me. To put it simply she tried to force me back to the chair and I refused, shouting, "I'm an independent young woman!". She, of course, responded with, "You're not a young woman!" I still won and ended up with my meat. Considering my battle won, I let her be my slave, but only because she wanted to be and my head was hurting.

When my father returned I had had a bowl of lunch meat, a glass of chocolate milk, several glasses of water, and a package of saltine crackers. I was not allowed on the computer all day in case it triggered a relapse. I am now allowed on the computer for short periods of time.

Let me describe to you what a migraine feels like. If you have had a migraine then you don't need to read this to understand the blog post tile. A migraine will usually start with a subtle sign. Some people (like me) have auras, which are little shimmery things in the corner of your vision. Others have other signs that I don't know about. Once you have noticed your sign you need to take medication. Do not tell yourself that you can tough it out. I thought I could in eight grade and it was NOT pretty. I threw up in a trashcan during a presentation about unicorns. If you take your medication and lie down in a dark quiet room to sleep for a couple hours, like my mother made me during my first migraine, it will pass a lot easier. Now we get to the migraine itself. I'll just describe it with medication, but still awake.

Saying that a migraine is just a magnified head ache is not a good description. Close your eyes and have someone read the following aloud to you if you want, it might make it easier. Imagine a thick black wall from overhead. Inside the wall is light. Outside is a pale pink mist with red tendrils floating in it. This is your mind normally. Now the red grows. It becomes solid and pushes against the wall with all of its strength. The wall cracks. Light spills out of the cracks. The red doesn't stop there. It forms large daggers and pushes them through the wall. In some places the wall shatters. Pain. Hot searing pain is all your mind can recognize. You will not be able to tie your shoes as thoughtlessly as normal. You have to put all of your focus into it and watch where the strings are going and what they're doing.

That is a migraine.

Monday, July 11, 2011

A Link To An Awesome Blog Post By Someone Else

Recently, I have been trying to be a good little blogger and blog frequently. Unfortunately, I am a procrastinator and prefer to spend my hours listening to music and reading blogs and webcomics all day. Thus I present to you a post from a blog that I enjoy immensely :

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Gurgle's Justice

Once there was an alien. It lived under a bridge. It had been content to play Tetris, but one day a meteor landed on top of his bridge crushing it. Thankfully the alien had been paying his electricity bill and had not died. Gurgle, the alien, was not happy to come home to a ruined bridge. Aiming for vengeance he struck out to find the beings that had sent the meteor into his peaceful home.

He rode in planes, sailed in boats, and tunneled through the ground until he reached the home of Burgundy the fish. Burgundy told him that Jiggle the beetle had gained mysterious powers over the cosmos. Thus Gurgle traveled until he reached the log, beneath which Jiggle lived. He then left, went to his spaceship, latched onto the moon with his gravity beam and dropped it on Juggle's house. Justice now served, Gurgle rented and new bridge to live under, but before he could unlock the door he fell asleep. It had been a long day/night.

The Prince of Bananas

Once upon a time there was a banana. Only this was not any banana, it was the crown prince of bananas. Everyday the prince banana, who went by Rupert, would watch over his people. As the kingdom (which admittedly had only eight citizens) turned from green to a vibrant yellow it was magically transported away from the cool shelf on which it had been to a basket somewhere far away. Throughout the years (banana years)his citizens vanished and Rupert became old and brown. He was visited frequently by small bugs, but one day a large hand picked him up and threw him down a chute. A grinding, whirring sound was heard and that was the last anyone knew of Prince Rupert of the Bananas.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Letter to Brown Recluse Spiders

Dear Brown Recluse Spiders,

I would appreciate it if you would live the full of your lives in the walls. It really scares me when you walk on the ceiling, dart across the floor, hang out in my pile of clean laundry, and/or crawl around in my covers. The covers are an especial no no when I am in them. Please refrain from standing on the back of my bedside table/card bard box. It makes me nervous to know you're there.

If you could stop being venomous that would be a bonus too. I would ask you to stop existing, but that's hard to do. Instead can you move across the country?


Monday, July 4, 2011

Deviled Eggs And Cupcakes

Happy Fourth of July!!!!! I personally count the fourth as one of my top holidays. It's right up there with Christmas and Thanksgiving, just above my birthday. This is because the Fourth is on of the few times when my mother makes deviled eggs. I've done the math (what little there is to do) and she only makes them twice a year. For someone who is a great fan of her deviled eggs, this small but true fact is pure torture. This year she also made cupcakes. Yes, cupcakes, those glorious little cakes shaped like cups!

My town celebrated the fourth last night. My family chose to celebrate on the same day. We converged to devour the food that our households had contributed to. For some odd reason, I have a reputation involving the disappearances of several deviled eggs. I have no idea why. This year however, I decided to help my mother in the preparation of these eggs of deliciousness.

Around noon yesterday, my mother announced that she was going to take a nap and would prepare the deviled eggs when she woke up. Seeing as the eggs had already been boiled and I had nothing to do, she informed me that I was to shell the eggs while she napped. My mother, being the kindly woman she is, showed me how to shell the eggs in case I had forgotten. She liberated a few from the confines of their shells and retired to her room.

I eagerly cracked the shell of one egg until it was covered with little lines, and began to tear the shell away. Unfortunately, a great deal of egg white peeled off too, so that, when I had finished, the egg was considerably smaller than and not as smooth as the eggs my mother had peeled. Valiantly, I continued on with my work. I finally began to shell the eggs rather well, so well in fact that I decided to do it with my eyes closed. The first blindly shelled egg seemed to have survived, pleased, I began the next one. When I had finished that egg, I looked down in dismay. Due to my longish fingernails and my lack of attention, I had exposed the yolk. I placed the egg with the others, horrified at what I had done to its innocent white protective layer. The rest of the eggs that I shelled survived with considerably less trauma.

My mother slept on while I arranged all 24 eggs on a tea towel to dry. I was going to do a 4x8 rectangle, but I decided to sort the injured from the perfectly shelled. I ended up with two 3x4 rectangles. Obviously, my technique needs work. I retired to my father's arm chair and read until the time my mother had informed me to wake her.

I slipped through her doorway and heard a faint snore. I smiled. She wasn't even under her covers. Instead, she had pulled an extra blanket from the foot of the bed over her. I looked at her for a moment, at her hair strewn across the pillow, and the rise and fall of the blanket covering her while she breathed.

"Mom." The words echoed around me so soon after I had uttered them. I was filled with memories of sneaking downstairs late at night and going to her room. The single word, "Mommy," would wake her instantly and she would open up the covers for me to climb in with her, the warm blankets closing around me, protecting me from the vicious shadows.

These days, as she no longer needs to fend off the monsters of nightmares, it takes a little more than a single word, quietly spoken to rouse her. I walked over and sat down on the bed next to her. The shift in weight on the bed woke her and she opened her eyes and looked at me. I informed her of the time and she nodded her head wisely. I left her to finish waking completely.

The back door was soon opened and closed to allow me to escape the confines of the house. I sat on the stairs of the porch. The cats, Sir. Shed-A-Lot and The Lady of Shed-Lots, both sauntered up to me and demanded attention. I happily did as ordered. By the time I thought Mom had gone to the kitchen, I was wondering if you can get fur burn. It is much like a rug burn, only one gets it from petting a cat or other furry pet for long periods of time.

I returned to the kitchen in time to see my mom put something in the blender. I looked at the eggs. She gently reminded me of the procedures (last time I made deviled eggs I was eight or nine) and showed me which knife she thought was appropriate. We merrily went about our work. Mom working with the cupcakes and me cutting the eggs in half and dropping the round yolk into a largish bowl. Two halves were too badly damaged to make suitable deviled eggs and had to be sacrificed to the monster that had cut them in half in the first place.

We finally came to the part where my mother and I made the center stuff. One deviled egg split and we hurriedly thrust it into the hands of my father, who was innocently passing by.

"Eat it fast!" My mother cried.

"Whoa!" My father had taken the egg and finally registered that the filling was spilling into his hands. The whole egg disappeared into his mouth quite quickly.

The rest of the evening went by rather uneventfully. We met the rest of the family (that could come) at the normal spot. There were a few stories told, including the time my sister made lemon bars that tasted like chicken, and we watched a movie before heading home.

That brings us to this morning. I woke up and decided that I didn't want to sleep anymore for the night. Little kids aren't the only ones with nightmares. It was 6:21. I usually wake up several hours later during the summer, but I didn't want to risk having anymore bad dreams. I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. My breakfast consisted of a glass of chocolate milk and three deviled eggs. I curled up in the recliner and read a book after consuming the most important meal of the day.

My sister came by, gave me a curious glance, and passed on. My father didn't even fully notice me until the third time he passed. When my mother came by for the second time I sweetly informed her that I had eaten breakfast and inquired how long she thought my father would stay in his room with the door closed. My mother is a wise woman and knows me well. She asked what I wanted to do that I didn't want him to know about. I said one word, "Cupcakes?" and my mother nodded, informed me that I could have one and that if my father came out of his room I could go hide in her room and that was it. She went to her lair and I choose a cupcake.

No sooner had I sat down, then my father's door opened and he emerged. I leapt to my feet, held the cupcake behind me, and giggled. I do not know why I giggled, as I had not even put my nose close to smell the icing yet. My father went into the bathroom. I wasted no time in dashing to my mother's room. I perched upon her bed and separated the wrapper and cupcake with surgical precision. Once the cupcake was no more, I returned to the livingroom where I found a traitorous act in the making.

My sister was talking with my father and telling him that I had gone to Mom's room with the cupcake and that I had my mother's permission. I hurried to my mother and told her that my sister had sold us out. Mom and I went upstairs to confront the sister. I confronted from behind the mother as older sisters are something to be mortified of. We relaxed after a moment and and my mother reminded me that I couldn't have another cupcake until after lunch. I couldn't help it.

"I don't need another one. I'm sweet enough already."

After my mother and sister finished laughing, my mother informed me that I got that from my father.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Fluffy Cats Are Deadly

The cat walked by, so I pulled her onto my lap.

Me- She's so fluffy!
My sister- Don't die.
Me- Of course not, then who would pet the cat?

Friday, June 3, 2011

Government of the People

This morning I emailed the governor with a few concerns as to a bill that awaits his signature. I was as polite as I could be and explained things completely. I even asked my mother to proof it. I returned to the computer this afternoon and found a reply from his office that went as follows:

Thank you for contacting my office. It is an honor and a privilege for me to serve as your Governor, and I appreciate hearing from you.

Because your ideas and concerns are very important to me, your correspondence is being reviewed by my constituent services staff to ensure that your issue is addressed and that you receive the assistance you may need.

Again, thank you for your correspondence.

Basically it means that there is hardly any chance of my little voice being heard and possibly stopping a pending disaster. Below the above words was a notice in all caps asking for me to not reply to that message. The interesting thing is my governor's email address began with this: no-reply.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


Pale green stem
bending in the breeze.
Colorful head
bobbing up and down.

A single organism
of incredible beauty,
graces my lawn
with its presence.

Many cultures
and many names,
but I
call it

Paper Planes

One thrust
and you lift off.
White wings
keep you aloft,
if only
for a moment.

in perfect symmetry,
you glide
through the room.

that is,
you crash
into the wall.

Your nose is bent.
I straighten it
and send you flying
once again.

Parallel Sister Monsters

This transpired this morning....

Me to Sister - You're a monster from a parallel universe!

Mom to me - Hey! Three nice things.

Sister to Mom and me - That WAS a nice thing!

April Storms

Pounding, pounding, pounding.
It pounds above my head.
It will not stop.
It will not stop.
It pounds above my head.

The rain,
it slams against the roof,
creating thunderous sound.
It will not stop.
It will not stop.
It pounds above my head.

The lightning shines,
a beacon there,
before it disappears.
It will not stop.
It will not stop.
It pounds above my head.

The thunder echos
loud and clear,
within our valley, here.
It will not stop.
It will not stop.
It pounds above my head.

The rain,
it slams against the roof,
creating thunderous sound.
It will not stop.
It will not stop.
It pounds above my head.

Pounding, pounding, pounding.
It pounds above my head.
It will not stop.
It will not stop.
It pounds above my head.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Blood Red Rose

It fell from
fingertip to
rose petal.

The difference
changed from
obvious to
barely viable.

My blood falls,
from where
you cut me,
to join the earth.

Hidden Singer

Cool air swirls
around me,
as my bare feet
patter across the
cold floor.

I turn the corner
and climb on the bed.
Folding my legs,
I press play.

Music flows
through me.
I smile and sing.
No one is bothered
by me here.

Furry Begger

You may not
have my hamburger.

It is mine.
No matter how big your eyes are.
No matter how you whine.
It belongs to me.

Even if you twitch your whiskers
just so slightly,
I will not give it to you.
Drooling doesn't help either.

You believe you must have it.
After all,
are bigger than your head.
The hamburger
is bigger than your head.

You do not care.
Why should you?
You are a cat.

Ode to Celery

I look at you,
as you are pulled
from the plastic bag.
Long slender stalks
of pale green,
with darker leaves.

Did you aspire
to be a tree?
You do not
seem to be
cut out for it.

The Cat

I wrote this in the summer of 2010:


have awakened me
at two a.m.
for food.

have used my legs
as scratching posts.

have begged
for things
that you do not

have bitten
my fingers.

have shed
on my popsicle.

left when
needed you.

makes you think that
I will feed

Letter to Flashdrives

Dear Flashdrives,
Let me spell this out for you. You. Are. Awesome. I can move my fifteenth page story from my computer to one at work. I can show my friends things from my computer without having to drag a computer to work. You are a stroke of genius. Whoever created you was one of the greatest people to ever walk the Earth. I am serious.
Without you, I would have been dead this Monday. The printer wasn't going to work with me. That much was clear. Then there you were. Sitting on my desk as normal as anything. I plugged you in, saved the document in your memory, and safely removed you. You rode around in my pocket all day, until you were needed. You did your job splendidly.
I would have very little chance of having a computer if my mother didn't know she could use you to move files from computer A. to laptop B. In fact, I owe a lot to you little rectangular device. So many things would have killed me if you didn't exist. This is why I am thanking you. Of course, you cannot read, but I still am writing a blog post just for you.


Sunday, March 27, 2011

I'm Listening

There are two kinds of people. Type A tends to be quiet and intelligent. Type B is pretty much everyone else. Type B people are human. They know that they can't hold all of their emotions and thoughts inside. In order to release the stuff inside their heads they talk to type A. Type A's job is to listen to type B's ranting. Type B will talk about anything. It it is on their mind they must get it out. They can talk to other type B's, but type B's know that sometimes they can't always trust their own. Type A doesn't talk about what the type B's say to them. They lock it away and forget about it until the B that told it to them talks to them again. That way they have a simple understanding of that B.
There is sadly a difficulty with the system. That being that type A's hold up the B's thoughts and concerns as well as their own. This is, in simple words, dangerous. The A's are so used to not speaking of the B's thoughts that they don't vent their thoughts. The thoughts and emotions build up at an alarming rate, because they harbor the B's as well. Once the A has reached it's limit there is usually a depressive swoop, if not a complete mental break down.
Type A's seem to be normal people. Sometimes they even seem to be the weakest of the humans. this is wrong. They are the strongest of us. The ones that carry our burdens, hopes, fears, and dreams. Sometimes we don't even realize that they are there, but they watch out for us and protect us from ourselves.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Letter to the March Weather

Dear March Weather,
You have brought Spring to me. I thank you for that. You are indeed my friend. I will play outside in your light and roll in the grass with the cat. I will build little houses for tiny humanoids that people say do not exist. The woods will be explored with fascination as to how nice it feels outside. Until, that is, the bugs that follow you try to eat my flesh. I will of course miss the snow, but your warmth is welcomed. Thank you for this warm front of happiness.


Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Statinoary Movement

Dad-- The snow's still commin' down.

Me-- WHAT!!

Dad-- Well actually it's quite active. But it continues.

Friday, February 4, 2011


     Jessie pulled her hood up. The wind bit at her cheeks as she started to walk down the dirt road that led to her grandmother's house. Her grandmother was sick, or at least that was what her parents said. Jessie hadn't seen her in a few years. Now, her mother said that Granny Hilda was doing well enough to eat some of Jessie's cooking. Jessie had been offended at first, but slowly it dawned upon her that she had been given permission to bake for Granny. When Jessie had presented the assortment of cookies and thermos of cherry lime-aid to her mother, she had been told to deliver them herself. Now here she was practically skipping down the road to see her grandmother.
     It was not long before she entered the woods. She was on Granny's lands now. The warmth of apprehension spread through her body. Giddy with anticipation, Jessie took off running down the road. Her camouflage backpack pounding against her scarlet windbreaker. It was not long before she ran out of breath, however and Jessie slowed to a walk. A wolf howled in the distance. Jessie howled back. The autumn leaves crunched beneath her feet. She hadn't been here for three years. She had been so happy. She would play in the trees. Once she saw a wolf. She had run to get mama and papa. They hadn't shown the same enthusiasm that she had. That was the last time she had been allowed to play here by herself. Now here she was, ten years old. No longer the second grader that couldn't fend for herself.
      " Hello, little girl." A voice broke into Jessie's memories. She looked up startled. A large man stood on the path before her. Jessie shivered. He had a hungry look in his eyes.
     " Hello, sir." Jessie responded, not quite sure of what to do.
     " Fine day to be out."
     " Yes it is."
     " Where might you be headed?"
     Jessie shivered. She did not like this man at all. Then again he would surely know if she lied to him. He regarded her with his dark eyes.
     " I am going to my grandmother's house."
     " Is that far?"
     " Just down the road, sir. If you don't mind I'll continue on my way." Jessie muttered.
     " Oh! Of course! I am sorry if I held you for very long  my dear."
     Jessie nodded and started down the road again.
     " I would pick some flowers for Granny if she were my grandmother." The man called after her. Jessie glanced over her shoulder. He was gone. She started to walk again, his words ringing in her ears. Without noticing it, Jessie began to pick flowers. Farther and farther into the woods, she went along picking more and more beautiful flowers. An owl sent its cry echoing through the dark. Only then did Jessie notice how late it was. Granny. She had forgotten Granny Hilda. Her hands froze inches from another flower. She swiftly stood and ran for the path. Flowers falling from between her fingers as she did so. She didn't stop when she reached the road. She didn't stop when she reached a fallen log. She stopped when she reached her grandmother's house. The gate was open. Jessie hurried to the door and knocked loudly.
     " Hello?"
     " It's me Jessie. May I come in, Granny?"
     " Of course, my dear!"
     Jessie opened the door and walked in. It was dark and something smelled. There was the bed, just where she remembered it. Jessie blindly felt for the light switch. She flipped it up with a click. A moan came from the bed. Jessie put her backpack down by the door and walked over to the bed.
     " Hello, Granny Hilda." Jessie said softly.
     " How are you my sweet?" The bed crooned.
     " Just fine, Granny." Jessie paused, "Are you doing all right? You sound funny."
     " Come a little closer dear, I didn't quite catch that."
     Jessie stepped closer to the bed. A large arm shot out and grabbed her wrist. Jessie screamed as loud as she could. The blankets were tossed back and the stranger from that mourning rolled off the bed.  Jessie pulled away. She pulled to hard and fell to the floor. That was when she saw under the bed. There was a limp form, clad in pastels, beneath the bed. Blood pooled around it's head, where a jagged slash had split the skin. Jessie screamed again. The man pulled a knife from his belt and grinned. As if she was a pillow, he pulled Jessie up and pressed his knife against her cheek. Jessie whimpered. Suddenly a bang filled her ears. The man fell to the floor. He was dead. Jessie was bawling when her uncle Brian walked through the door. He set down the gun on the counter and picked Jessie up. She continued to weep as he set her in a chair and washed the small cut off of her face. Jessie fell asleep on the couch as her uncle cleaned the house and fished his mother out from under the bed.
     The next day Brian drove his niece up to his brother's house. he had been hunting for something to make a good stew with for Hilda. He was on his way back when he heard Jessie scream. Margret held her baby close as her husband and brother in law spoke about the man. Jessie was still in her mother's arms. Afterward she did her chores and went to school as usual, but she was different. Her spark was gone. Not only had that man stolen her grandmother's life, he had also taken Jessie's childhood.