Wordzzle (yes! actually accomplished one!)

Hey guys. I'm sorry I haven't been blogging recently but there's a lot more school work this year, and I've been pretty much swamped since August. However, I was allowed to stay home from school due to an asthma-related cough, and I FINALLY was able to do a wordzzle for the first time since...I don't want to think how long. Anyway, it's a cute story.

Wordzzle

Milo shrieked as he landed on the bedside table. “All decks, red alert!” he called loudly. “He’s dead, Jim! So you think you can—AWK!”

Paula reached to the table for her glasses and spritzed the macaw with the water bottle at the same time in one practiced movement. Jamming on her glasses, she asked, “Who’s dead?”

“He’s dead, Jim! Engage. KHAAAAAAAA—AWK!”

Paula relaxed. More Star Trek quotes. She climbed out of bed gingerly, aware of the bird perched precariously on the end of the bed. “And how is my lovely African violet today?”

“I am Captain Jean-Picard of the USS Enterprise,” Milo growled. “We received your distress call. Please state the nature of your emergency.”

Paula shook her head in dismay. She had inherited the parrot from a loving but totally Trekked member of her family. 20 years ago, the macaw and her uncle had watched an episode of Next Gen entirely by accident and the next day they signed up for a con and never looked back. Before the Encounter, as she referred to it, the bird had a wide repertoire of show tunes. Now the only things Milo would say were Star Trek quotes and the occasional TV commercial that caught his fancy. But hey, as they say, laugh and the world laughs with you. It was better than him repeating sleazy soap opera catchphrases.

Following Paula into the bathroom, Milo observed the shower head with a beady eye. The water was warm; Paula, eyes closed, reached across for the bath brush and was rewarded with a nip and a squawk, informing her that she had missed her target. The pain ended her morning zombie trance, and as she stepped out of the shower, Milo stepped in and waddled under the shower head, fluffing and preening ferociously.

After the morning bath ritual, Paula placed Milo on the kitchen table and looked him in the eye, speaking calmly, using the even tone one would use with a mental patient. “Milo,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I have to go somewhere for a little while.”

Milo cocked his head. “Report, Dr. Crusher,” he said, and edged away from her hand. Paula shrugged, and continued.

“It’s called a party. I’ll be gone about four hours. I’ll put on the National Symphony for you if you like.” She picked her purse and gently walked to the door. There was a flurry of feathers and rapid wing-beats, and the macaw stood firmly, yea, angrily in front of the door.

“YOU MAY NOT PASS,” the bird boomed. Paula gave him a sideways glance. Not Star Trek? “Resistance is futile,” the bird continued. Paula nodded resignedly. That was more like it.

The doorbell rang; it had to be Chris! Paula felt butterflies rise in her stomach. Milo turned his head towards her, as if sensing her intentions. To think that Paula would hold hands (oh, the horror) with another bird/human was repulsive, even somewhat frightening, to Milo. Honestly, Paula wasn’t interested in Chris that way, but the poor kid didn’t have any family in the area, and it was his birthday, after all. Oh, and Paula could make a mean cheesecake.

Paula gently picked Milo up and placed him on his favourite perch—the refrigerator—and opened the door for her friend and colleague. “Hey, Paula,” Chris said easily. “And how’s my buddy Milo today?”

The bird gave him a death glare. “Fire all phasers, Mr. Sulu.”

Mini

I’d always been afraid of monsters in my closet when I was growing up in rural Pennsylvania.I had no reason to be afraid; my days were fun-filled and generically G-rated. The highlight of my day would be to make a strike in the bowling competition and head over to the diner with my girlfriend from Philadelphia. She was always really polite about the stains on the menus. But at night, sure as the sun sets in the west, I’d start having a dream about a monster of some kind. Usually it’d be a cop pulling me over, and when I did, he’d pull me from my truck roughly and...well, I’d usually wake up in a cold sweat right about there. The nightmares didn’t stop until I was out of college. Even then, when I saw a cop, I’d keep the door locked until I saw a badge.

Maxi

The family my husband had to grow up with didn’t treat him roughly as a child, but they still remained monsters in his closet for years to come (for reasons I can explain.) I occasionally hear him crying in the night, and I’ll reach over to hold his hands. Part of his mental trauma, I think, was the era in which he grew up. I’m surprised I’m not more affected myself.

The virus which caused humans to act like zombies was discovered twenty years ago by one of the most brilliant scientists on the planet, Richard Pennsylvania. Soon after his discovery, however, a crack team of special-forces commandos invaded the lab where it was being kept and having its affects studied in mice, and took everything, including the refrigerator and the decorative African violets. When Pennsylvania returned the next day to document a few more tests, all he found was a cryptic note taped to the door: “laugh and the world laughs with you.”

It took the a cryptologist about two hours to analyze the note, and found it referred to old-fashioned latitude and longitude coordinates. The Air Force rushed there, but it was too late. Whoever had taken the virus had already poured it into New York’s water main.

The zombie virus did not react quite as people expected, however. Instead of going after brains, they went after whatever they wanted most in their lives before they “died.” For example, my husband’s mother hunted obsessively for boys, about ten years old, with blond hair like his when he was that young. His father hunted for cheesecake, after being denied all products containing sugar since he was diagnosed with diabetes. Others might hunt bath brushes or bowling balls.

I think what scared my husband most was his sister. She was five years old when she contracted the virus; she hunted for butterflies all day. Eventually she became so weak from not eating he took her to a diner and handed her a menu with “chicken” crossed out and “butterflies” pencilled in.

I don’t have any family still alive, so I may have been relatively isolated from the pain, but my husband definitely still has dreams about his parents and sister. I try to help as best as I can, but it’s up to him to deal with his own monsters of the mind.

Apologies

Hi everyone :)

I apologize profusely. I haven't been following the memes since a few weeks before school started. I'll try to get back with it; classes are fun, but there's a lot more work than I remembered from last year.

Thanks for understanding!

Lindy

Living with Rob: part 2 (Three-word Thursday)

"WHAT?" Jenny shrieked into the phone.

Rob's voice on the other end had lost its normally cheery cast. "I'm afraid so, Jen. I tried to get her to stay at a hotel, gave her all the usual excuses, even told her about the mold under the sink, and she positively insisted on seeing us once while she's at the conference."

Jenny closed her eyes, trying not to scream with frustration. Every single time Rob's mother, Lorianna, came within 50 miles of their apartment, Jenny and Rob took her out to dinner, which inevitably was filled with pointed comments such as, "well, have you chosen a wedding date?" and "I know James and I didn't live together until after we were married, that's all I can say." Jenny usually excused herself mid-meal for the bathroom only to sit in there for another half-hour, avoiding the old bat.

"Jenny? Are you there?"
"Okay. I can handle it. Can you think of a way for this dinner to end well?"

There was silence from the other end; finally Rob said, in a strained voice, "We'll think of something. I have to go. Love you lots."

"Lo--" Rob hung up abruptly. "--ve you too," Jenny finished quietly.

Rob stared at his cell phone, wondering if he sounded too upset. He honestly didn't get along any better with his mother than Jenny did, but she was his mom, and that's all there was to it. He acquiesced to her demands because she could make his life a living hell if he didn't, but he didn't want to lose Jenny either. He realized intellectually that his mother was viliorating the relationship between himself and Jenny, but he had no idea how to stop it. Oh, hell. Maybe he should just crack and get one of those self-help books, or start reading the advice column.

On impulse, he picked up a Washington Post and started leafing through the Style section. The advice columnist seemed relatively well-informed, and he read through the column until he reached the second letter on child care, at which point he put down the paper hurriedly. He and Jen had problems, but at least they weren't of that kind. The columnist, though, had given him an idea for dealing with his mother. He smiled, and called her.

Jenny and Rob walked into the restaurant five minutes to seven. Jenny was perfectly composed, at least externally, and Rob, once again, had a grin on his face. While waiting for their guest to arrive, they examined the tadpoles and frogs in their wall-to-wall tank. Jenny eyed them enviously; they had no idea who their parents were and never had any squabbles with their family.

Lorianna walked in almost exactly as the clock struck seven and nodded genteelly to them both. "Good evening, Robert, Jennifer. Shall we proceed?"

Jenny raised an eyebrow at Rob, but he just stared straight ahead, the goofy grin still on his face. For a change, the dinner conversation seemed very light, possibly a bit forced, but generally pleasant. No questions besides those relating to various politics and the latest bestsellers were asked, and when the waiter finally showed up with the check, Jenny was actually enjoying her mother in law's company.

As Rob signed the credit card slip, Lorianna leaned forward to Jenny. She seemed somewhat embarrassed, and very contrite. "My dear, I have not been very kind to you in the past. I admit, I disliked you at first, but I've grown to liking you more and more. In addition," she said conspiratorially, "you can file tax returns without the IRS knocking at your door." Jenny's face turned a healthy shade of pink. Lorianna said a bit more, but it was the last phrase that really caught Jenny's attention: "I cannot think of a better wife for Robert to have."

After they dropped Lorianna off at her hotel, Jenny leaned over to Rob and whispered, "What did you DO?"

Rob's perpetual grin widened, but he didn't say a word.

Take this tune failure

If anoyone comes looking for my take this tune, I didn't write it. My brain is not thinking in linear terms today, so instead, I'll take this time off and do something artistic. Thanks, guys, and I'll publish the results later :)

Wordzzle 57

For the 10-word:

Community College Pitch

“Hey, my name’s Alan McIntyre, and ten years ago, I dropped out of college. However, I’m a believer in my generation being one to make a difference. I worked at a lot of different jobs like a flea market, staff on a hotline for keeping kids out of trouble, even cleaning elderly peoples’ houses and finding a bonnet or two in the attic. The one thing I learned in the hardest way possible is this: don’t let disinformation keep you out of a community college. I’ve done just about every job imaginable, but now I’m halfway through my film diploma at Falling Leaves Community College. I cannot award it with a higher superlative than that it allowed me to pursue my dream after every other school I applied to said it wasn’t possible. [laughs] Now I get to say, ‘Who was that masked man?’ in class all the time! What kind of job is cooler than that?”

Falling Leaves Community College: the place for you. Call us now and live your dreams for real.

For the mini:

Alan’s 1-minute film script

Lights up. Deep in the forest, a young man and woman sit on a log. They’re wearing hiking clothes, and are arguing over a map.

James: No, look! Right there! It says that the right was the way to go. Instead we went left, and look what a mess we ended up in.

Amy: Says you and the government.

James is offended, and says so.

James: My-my-(splutters) It’s your darn government too, Amy!

Amy smiles at him.

Amy: I just said that to get a rise out of you, silly.

James: I had the feeling so, but…(trails off) We’re so lost, Amy.

Amy: But it’s so charming! The way the light falls through the tree leaves is just beautiful. I feel like a little girl again at my grandmother’s house. She never let me touch the heirlooms, but I would look and imagine what they were like back when they were brand new. Mm, and her gingerbread recipe was probably one too. (sniffs) I think I smell gingerbread, as a matter of fact.

James is flabbergasted.

James: You’re actually thinking of food at a time like this?

Amy: Well, I’m hungry!

Lights dim.

For the maxi/mega:

I walked into theatre class with a knot in my stomach. Today was the day the cast list for “Bonnet in the Attic: a Western Mystery Musical” went up, and I was hoping to be Ellen, the main female lead. However, I had a feeling that tripping over my own feet during tryouts had counted against me. I hurried over to the posting and mock-clutched at my heart, flabbergasted. I had somehow ended up as the Indian chief’s wife Falling Leaves. My only line in the entire musical besides chorus scenes was “Who was that masked man, Running Deer?” I sighed stoically; at least I was in it, after all. Alas, my dreams of a Superlative award were gone.

The entire play was such a farce of the Wild West I was tempted to go to the school government after reading though the script, but I decided against it. After all, the play wasn’t supposed to be accurate. It was supposed to be a device for keeping kids out of trouble, and if that meant less time with the school staff, I was all for it. I’m a believer of the free press, an idea not shared at the all-girl’s Catholic school I attended. Disinformation had almost kept me from tryouts, and I was not about to muck up my only chance by causing a fuss.

After our first (terrible) rehearsal, I dawdled on the way home past the flea market and the charming little heirlooms shop. Normally, I’d stop inside to say hello to my sister, who worked there, but I was feeling so terrible and angry about the musical I just walked on. My house was not as “deep in the forest” as people claimed; it was about a ¼ mile walk. My mother always said it was my generation that thought a quarter of a mile was a long distance; I didn’t disagree. I only wished I could change my generation’s mind. Make them walk 26.2 miles every day, I thought to myself, and they’d breeze past a quarter of a mile almost instantly. I smiled a little as I sniffed the air; mom was making lentil soup. I picked up the pace, running home for the final 500 feet.

Thanks Raven!

Three Word Thursday Mishap

Unfortunately, I was in DC all of Thursday and got back past midnight, and was thus unable to participate...and I had a really funny story idea...oh well, that's for next week. Thanks :)

The 56 Files: Part 2 (Take this Tune)

After dropping off Ellie, I headed down the hallway toward my apartment, then stopped before I put my hand on the doorknob. It was ajar—only a bit, but enough to make me feel the sixth sense agents of a certain caliber develop. I loosed my Beretta from my shoulder holster and held it to my side, the dark of the gun blending with the dark weave. Softly, carefully, I pushed it open; a man with fair skin and red hair was looking through papers on my desk. I snapped the gun up, then yelled, “CIA! Put your hands on your head!”

The man jumped and fell to the floor, curling into a ball. “Ow, dude!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot me, man! Geez—gun control!”

I kept him marked. “What are you doing in my apartment? Looking for intelligence reports?”

The man looked up at me, surprised. “Dude, no! This is yours?” He looked at the Beretta uneasily. “Uh, will you shoot me if I get up?”

“No,” I sighed.

The man got up shakily. “Don’t hold guns on people, man. I could’ve gotten sick on your carpet. I’m allergic to weapons, particularly Berettas.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” I muttered, putting away my weapon, but keeping it loose in the holster. “Now what are you doing in here?”

The man sat down on my computer chair backward, and explained, “Dude, last night, I was coming back from, like, the Greenpeace meeting, and so yeah. And then I went up to, like, my room and my roommate dude was in there, and so I was like ‘hey’ and he was like ‘hey’ and then he hit me over the head with the desk chair. So, well, I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt, and I was here, man. I was looking for a phonebook, that’s all, I promise, dude. Don’t shoot.”

I looked him over carefully; he certainly didn’t look like a national threat, but that’s the point—national threats rarely look like them until they happen. However, this, er, dude looked pretty harmless in his Birkenstocks and his Inspi(red) t-shirt. What’s the harm? Something was out of place, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I shrugged it off.

I held out a hand and the man took it gratefully, standing up cautiously. My cell phone rang the “Mission: Impossible” theme; it was 24. As I shifted my attention to answer, the man, moving much more quickly than I thought he was capable of, slid a slender needle into the vein in my elbow crook, pressing the plunger down rapidly. My head snapped to it in shock, but my legs buckled under me; as I fumbled for my Beretta, he reached out and took it from the holster, then stepped on and destroyed my phone, settling down comfortably next to me.

“You must have questions, 56,” he said conversationally. “My name is Taran. At the moment I’m working for an organization called Combatientes por la Libertad de Porivia, or the CLP for short. I’ve been given orders not to kill you, just delay you, but...” he hissed, bringing my face inches from mine, all traces of environmental activist hippie gone, “you will die if you come after me in Porivia. Be warned. What we did to the first man will be nothing compared to what we do to you.” I fought to keep my eyes open, to signal 24, to activate my car alarm, anything, but my muscles didn’t respond. As my eyes finally closed against my will, the red-haired man’s face was the last thing I saw.

Join me in Take this Tune fun :)