Rush Write

Time to write!

Just write without stopping for five minutes. Begin with the word "cheese".

Cheese was a power source for the Balondians. They needed it to fuel their cars, light their cities, and play their music. Without cheese, Balondian society would cease to exist. Cheese wasn't just fuel, it wasn't just power. Cheese was life. Where there was life there was Cheese. Where one did not exist, it was likely that the other did not as well. The Balondians needed so much cheese that to them the term "holy cow" could hardly be more literal. Cows were their main cheese producers. While yaks and goats could get the job done as well, they produced a cheese which didn't quite "cut the mustard" so to speak. I guess you could say it was "low-grade". As a result, dairy farms, referred to as power plants of course, were located all over the land of Balondia. On one such farm lived a girl named Russe, said like Roos and not like Russ and perhaps most of all like ruse. She was tiny, oh so tiny, especially when compared to the large cows she spent her hours with. Day in and day out, Russe was among the cows.

While the thought of having a city run on cheese and a tiny girl living among the cows might seem fantastic to you, I must assure you, there were stranger things happening in Balondia. Stranger things, like coins disappearing from the royal treasury, and cheese going bad before it was used. Oddly enough, these strange occurrences didn't begin happening until the arrival of Orlock the Warlock.

In My Pocket

Time to write!

"I found the strangest thing in my pocket"

I found the very most strangest thing in my pocket. I cannot even believe how strange it was. It was large and square and seemed a lot like a book full of literary theory, which is strange enough. It gets even weirder though, for when I opened up the book, expecting to see pages full of text from confusing men like Derrida and Eagleton, all of whom are so sure they're correct it is almost enough to make a body sick, there weren't any such words. Instead it was my diary. But instead of being written by me, it was written by me if I had lived my life as a cow.

For example, there was an entry from the day I got my first kiss. But instead of being the real story of my first kiss- which is one worth telling, but which doesn't truly fit into this schematic. Is schematic the right word here? Context? Narrative?- it was the story of a cow's first kiss. It was hardly romantic. As I read the words on the page which said, "Today while mooing and grazing and chewing on my cud all at once I looked up and who should I lay my large brown eyes upon, figuratively of course, but the bull in the next paddock. He is a fine piece of meat, or will be someday. In fact, I think in a couple years he might be butchered and enjoyed by families around America. Such a realization made me question his attractive qualities, for why bother getting attached when such complication will undoubtedly occur. However, my interests were piqued and I could not resist at least going over to moo hello. I trotted on over, in the way a cow trots when excited, and mooed as flirtatious a moo as I could muster. It is a technique we practice whenever possible, for it isn't an easy thing to accomplish. In response to my moo the bull nudged my head with mine. I'm convinced however, that his grass-covered lips touched mine for just a moment. Too bad there's no future for us, for I doth believe I am smitten." I felt extremely concerned and confused and conniving. What is it that I connived? I connived something completely unrelated to the rest of this tale, and so it can be shared another time, just as with the first kiss adventure, which I'm sure you've not forgotten about since it was last brought up.

And so I'm sure you're convinced that this is all pretty strange. I mean, who wouldn't think it odd? But I haven't even told you the weirdest part yet. The weirdest part, is that when I found this book, I hadn't put on my pants yet. I had no pockets.

Wow....did that just come out of me? Please no one read this. Whate'er. Getting published anyway. Clicking the button in three....two....one....

Dream Wedding

Time to write!

Tonight's post is inspired by two of my best friends, who are incidentally some of the best supporters of my writing that I know. Hope it makes you guys laugh. :)

Bettilda pulled back her covers just a tad violently. "I want to get married!" she grumbled. "Like for real."
"Then do it," said her imaginary roommate. Her imaginary roommate was named Nike, because she was always encouraging Bettilda to do things. Without Nike, Bettilda would not feel nearly so encouraged, eb'ry day.
"Ok," Bettilda said, climbing into her bed and pulling her posse around her. Her posse was made up of entirely of bears, and was actually just two members large.
Generally  Blueberry was the master planner. He helped Bettilda with the logistics of all of her maneuvers. Why only half an hour ago he had planned a successful reconnaissance mission to the vending machines. He was a master planner, which is one of the reasons Bettilda kept him around. The other reasons were secrets, and ones that you couldn't find out if you were human.
Her other posse member, B. YGregalious  Uffenfuzzworth, said with a silent 'y' and commonly known as BYU Bear, mostly just sat there and smiled. Most of the time Bettilda was sure that BYU Bear couldn't talk, but Nike insisted that he oft times quoted speeches in the midst of the nighttime when the stars shone through the drawn blinds, the way that only magic stars could.
Nike had a way of speaking that made such things sound poetic.
"I want to get married," Bettilda repeated to her posse.
"Excellent idea," Generally Blueberry asserted.
B. YGregalious smiled.
"I has a plan!" Nike cried, springing in one leap from her imaginary bed on the other side of the room to Bettilda's bed and landing square in her lap.
For some people such proximity would have been awkward, but Nike was a snuggler and it was just something Bettilda was used to.
"Speak to me," Bettilda said, patting Nike on the head.
"Let's go find a man, and then you will get married."
Bettilda loved this idea so much she hopped out of bed and did some hip hopping dance moves. Nike clapped her hands enthusiastically. General Blueberry covered the young BYU Bear's eyes, thinking he was not quite ready for such a display of celebration.
Once her dancing was complete, Bettilda asked General Blueberry what the next step should be. They had an objective, now it was time to move, move, move!

Precisely three hours and twenty-six minutes later, at 1:23 am, Bettilda climbed a tree.
"Gib me a boost!" she whispered to Nike.
"On it!" Nike cupped her imaginary hands underneath Bettilda's foot, and couldn't help but notice that Bettilda was wearing some very fine imaginary footwear.
"Um. Bettilda?" Nike said. "Are you wearing my green and brown flip flops from my imaginary aunt?"
"Yes. I lub them." Bettilda replied.
Her straightforward honesty touched Nike to the very inner being of what could be described as her heart and she shed three single tears of pure emotion as she boosted Bettilda in the tree. This was ideal, for from Nike's tears of emotion sprouted a dress, a wedding cake, and a little man named Horatio, who was actually the best wedding hair dresser in all the world.

Bettilda moaned. In order for their plan to work she would need to moan loud enough that one of the boys would open up their window and see her laying in the tree. She was about to give up, when at 2:34 a window opened and a return missionary with caring eyes and excellent skin peered out.

In moments he had rescued Bettilda from the tree.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
"Yes. And guess what?" Bettilda said.
"What?"
"I have all these things to get married. Right here. Want to?"
"That'd be fine," the boy replied. "You just need to call Breanna first. She deserves to be at your wedding, don't you think?"
It was just then that Bettilda noticed the boy was actually pretty much Mr. Darcy.
She was delighted.

Worst Work Day

Time to write!

"Today her boss had gone too far" 

Nona had had it. Done. She was done. She could not tolerate another single day with Mr. MikMik. That was his real name. Mr. MikMik was Nona's boss, and she detested the man stupendously. This was not the kind of detestation that stories are written about, oh no. Mike MikMik was no Mr. Darcy, lurking under the cloak of hatred, just to throw it off and reveal true love at the end of the novel. That was too cliche, and besides, Mr. MikMik was not handsome nor British, so why bother comparing the two?

There really wasn't anything about Mr. MikMik that Nona found worthy of appreciation. He was loud and controlling. No matter what any of the employees did it never seemed to be enough. His mustache was always uneven, and his comb over never created the illusion he intended it to. Truly, there was nothing admirable about the man. Even the way he chewed gum was easy to dislike, chomping and slurping and glaring at the world, daring one of his employees to comment on the sound and the display.

Each day, going into work, Nona had to take a deep breath and remind herself that she needed this job to keep paying for Wigwam's food. Wigwam was Nona's pet giraffe. He lived in the backyard of her apartment complex on 25th street, just across from Mr. Lloyd's deli. Wigwam was a costly fellow, but Nona loved him, so she chose to keep him on and sacrifice in order to keep him around. Nona was just that kind of friend.

But today, Mr. MikMik did something which made Nona test the limits of her love for Wigwam. Mr. MikMik crossed a line, stepping neatly across the boundary between "I'm mad, but I can deal with that" and "I might just kill you with the nearest object. A stapler will do nicely".

You see, if there was one worldly possession Nona loved in all the world it was her teddy bear, which is why she kept it home where she was sure it'd be safe. However, her planner was also very important to her. It had all her plans in it. Notes, lists, agendas, musings, and so on and so forth were also listed in the pages of the little bound book. That morning Mr. MikMik had spilled an entire cup of coffee on Nona's planner. Then yelled at her for the incident. And told her that his next cup of coffee was coming out of her paycheck. And then he'd ordered her to take "that sopping mess" and place it in the trashcan. Nona stood there, torn, fuming, and reluctant to throw her planner in the rubbish receptacle. It just wasn't fair.

Nona, Nona. Calm down sugar plum. (Calling herself pet names sometimes worked to help Nona relieve herself of anxiety. Today it didn't seem to do the trick.) Nona felt her hands clenching into fists.

Nona. Think of Wigwam. Think of Wigwam and that face he gets everytime he eats a whole barrel of special Giraffe Gourmet Goulash and the dance he never fails to complete afterward. Think of the way two of his legs fly into the air while the other two seemingly pirouette in a spiral reminiscent of a polar bear ascending into a tree. Think of that. 

But even these images did nothing to calm Nona. Such was her anger, such was her fury.

"No." she said.

The look on Mr. MikMik's face rendered him even more unattractive than was customary.

um. I am disturbed at myself for writing this. 

So Late

Time to write!

As per usual it's too late to really write something cohesive. So here goes five minutes of nonsense. Enjoy. :)

Penniworth McGillicutty lived in a small house with green shutters and a yellow front door. He wanted to one day paint his porch red, but who really has time for that kind of nonsense, and besides, he knew his mother wouldn't like it.

Penniworth was seven years old. His mother had named him Penniworth only moments after giving birth, and though many assumed she just hadn't thought the name through, she thought it fit the boy very well. He was small for his age, skinny but with a round face, and big eyes which his mother thought made him look intelligent. It actually made him look more bovine, but such a look is acceptable on seven year old boys with darling hair cuts and corduroy overalls.

Jerome and Stanley were Penniworth's best friends. Jerome lived across the street and one house to the right. That's what Penniworth's mom liked to call "diagonal". Stanley lived over five minutes away, in a big house in a cul-de-sac. That's what Penniworth liked to call "too far away". If he wasn't allowed to ride on his tricycle there, then it was automatically too far away in Penniworth's book.

Daddy was away lots, for his military job. Penniworth missed him greatly, and drew him pictures. Sometimes he'd draw pictures of what happened during the week, and sometimes he'd draw pictures of what he wished had happened during the week. Once he drew a picture of himself riding a dinosaur. The dinosaur was also eating his little sister, but Penniworth added that quick before it got mailed off. He was smart enough to know that Mama wouldn't like that very well.

Emma, Penniworth's baby sister, was actually one of Penniworth's favorite people. He wasn't a malicious child. It was just that Mama had been on the phone for hours that particular afternoon and he'd been stuck watching her. Then she'd made what Mama called "a stinky" and what Daddy called "a big one" and what Penniworth called "just plain gross", and on top of that she'd cried about it. Loudly. If anyone deserved to cry about it, it was Penniworth. So any other day Penniworth would have hated it if his imaginary pet dinosaur Rolo had eaten Emma, but just then it seemed like what Daddy would call "a fine notion, son".

2:00

Time to write!

Such is my dedication to this blog that I am literally writing it at 2 am because I was just hanging out in the hall with some friends. So tonight's entry will be exceedingly short, and yet, beautiful. 

Write about a penguin named McMuffin.

Once in the cold and wintry land of Antarctica lived a penguin named McMuffin McAllistar, known to friends, acquaintances, compatriots, strangers, and even enemies alike as McMuffin McAllistar.

McMuffin was not a particularly tall penguin, nor was he particularly fat. He was, however, particularly fond of chasing seals. While all the other penguins seemed to find other activities more enjoyable, such as fishing, laying eggs, or performing the occasional tap dance, McMuffin preferred to go down to the edges of the continent where the ice was jagged and coldest of all, and chase the seals.

The seals, for their part, were not fond of McMuffin McAllistar's chasing ways. It was not an infrequent occurrence that they'd be in the middle of an exceptionally interesting forum, sometimes on the topic of Killer Whale Killing Prevention - which is to say the prevention of killing by Killer Whales, not the prevention of Killer Whales - when McMuffin would come running through and then would chase them all about. Ironically enough, this, on more than one occasion, led to a seal slipping into the water and being killed by Killer Whale.

It is essential, at this juncture, to recognize that Killer Whale was the name of an individual member of said species, and a bloodthirsty, vengeful, spiteful one at that. Killer Whale was as opposite from Shamu as Hitler was from Fred Rogers.

Is it disturbing that I kind of want to continue this....?

Does that make ME an Alien?

Time to write!

My biggest question is... if everyone else is the same species, and I'm different, does that me the alien? And if the answer is yes, how did I get here? I looked like my parents, like my older sister, even like all my friends in the sense that we all looked, you know, human.

They still looked human. It wasn't like they'd all set up some elaborate scheme for the past fourteen years to make me think I was just like them, while we are actually a different species. They didn't wear skin suits, or bind extra arms to their sides. They weren't green, they weren't slimy, and neither was I.

They were different though.

I wondered who else knew. Did everyone know? Did at least my parents know?

I hadn't meant to find out. I'd been working in the science lab after school, like I did every Thursday afternoon, and was cleaning some of the newer equipment. A hair was lying on the new, fancy-shmancy DNA analyzer which had just come in two weeks before. The way it worked, essentially, was that you could place anything from a living organism under the lens and drop a couple of drops of solution over the sample, and the machine would give you results, telling you what species the sample had come from. Simple enough.

I was just admiring it, so Doctor Warrell told me to go ahead, try it out. I tried it first with the hair already on the machine. After allowing the machine to process a code printed out. HU484-OOL.  I wasn't sure what that meant, but figured it just meant the code for "human" or "homo sapien" or whatever. I plucked a hair from my own head, dripped the solution over it, waited for the DNA to be deciphered, then pulled out the strip of paper. The code read RW623-MMH.

After that, I must admit, I was freaked out. I showed the first code to Doctor Warrell and asked him what that meant, and he told me it was just "the hair from a normal person", in fact it was one of Bianca's hairs. Bianca was the girl who came in to help Doctor Warrell on Wednesdays, and she'd been in my class for the past four years.

I didn't want to tell Doctor Warrell my code was different. I wondered if it was just because I was a boy. Maybe there were different codes for boys and girls.

A true thing.... I really want to continue this cause I have more of an idea, but I am tired and want to sleep. SO I will just revisit this for another day's prompt. 

First Entry: One Syllable Story

As an aspiring author and fanatic of the English language, I have decided to begin a routine of writing for at least five minutes each day. This is hardly any time at all, but I wanted to give myself an achievable way to keep the creative juices flowing and to make myself get some writing done. Each day, I'll pick a writing prompt and make an entry. Publishing this in a blog will make it accessible for feedback, so I appreciate any comments you may feel inclined to give! Happy writing!

Today's Prompt: Write a short story using words with only one syllable.
Five minutes...starting NOW!

The last thing Jan saw as the truck left the lot, was a lone dead tree by the curb. Jan knew that it would be the last time he would see that tree. He had grown up with that tree, he had spent hours in it and by it, in it's shade. The tree had a name, Marge. Jan knew Marge would miss him, just as he knew he would miss Marge. The red truck Jan sat in was slow and old, so Jan had a bit more time to watch Marge, but soon Marge was gone; leaf, trunk, root, branch, and all.
"Why do we have to move?" Jan said, with a sad look on his face once his eyes had cut off their search for Marge.
"I got a new job, boy," said Brandt. Brandt did not call Jan "Jan", just boy, and Jan did not call Brandt "dad". Theirs was a strange type of love, not like the love Jan had with Marge. Jan could not know how much Brandt hid from him, and if he had known he would not have thought Brandt was so cold. Brandt, in turn, did not want to hear Jan speak like a child. Brandt had gone through hard times, and thought Jan should be tough, like he was. While both did not say so, they both were sad that they did not talk more. They did not talk of Mary, Jan's mom.

Hahaha, wow! Can't believe that's all five minutes produced. Seriously, not even using two  syllable words is a challenge though. While this was a nice exercise, I don't think this is one that will get me going on any serious stories. I was laughing at how dumb this was the entire time I wrote it, but it was pretty fun times. 

Until tomorrow!