#Famous Couples Challenge

I do love a good challenge. To start the week off on a good note, I’ll throw out this little ditty – Bonnie and Clyde Run Amuck.

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The rules are simple. There are no rules. Wait, that’s not right. The rules are as follows:

  • Pick any famous couple from the past (By past I mean: any couple from 1880 – to 1980).
  • Explain shortly your choice (you can add photo if you like).
  • Add the quote from the ‘famous couple’.
  • The style and the genre of the writing – any.
  • Nominate up to 3-5 blogs. Link to the page that nominated you. Have fun!

I however will be nominating no blogs.  Just writing. Here goes the tale of Bonnie and Clyde Run Amuck.

“This here’s Miss Bonnie Parker. I’m Clyde Barrow. We rob banks.” Clyde said this as Bonnie brought out cases to fill with cash.

“I might make a criminal out of you, yet, Clyde Barrow,” said Bonnie.

“Doll, you already have. Now, while we rob this bank, here, see, Bonnie’s gonna read to ya,” Clyde said. “Bonnie, read ‘em the poem you wrote.”

“While I stash your cash from the bank vault,

just know when I say it’s not my fault.

You see, the cops apprehend every Tom, Dick, and Red,

our only fighting stance is to leave you dead.

When detectives come, and, oh, they will,

you won’t know it, you’ll be shot dead still.”

“Smashing, Bonnie,” and with that, Clyde opened his Gatling gun and took the white from every eye he saw. Bodies were strung about the bank, one on top of the other. They stacked all the bank notes in their bags and walked out the door.

“You know what kind of car this is, Clyde?” Bonnie pointed at a stationary Ford.

“It’s a 4-cylinder Ford Coupe, doll,” Clyde said confidently.

“Nope,” Bonnie shot back, “it’s a stolen 4-cylinder Ford Coupe.” And on that note, they drove away in a stolen Ford.

 

 

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The Word “It” – Its Detriment, Pun Pardoned

When one writes their fantastic, over-the-top, poignant, exciting novel or novella, passive language can cripple the work. There are several words one should steer clear of, but one word in particular that has little meaning and is highly ambiguous – “it“.

When I’m writing nowadays, I’m very aware of word choice. Clarification and being concise is of utmost importance. When I’m re-reading/re-writing, the word “it” smacks me in the face and says, “Hey! What did you mean by me?” Then I have to come to what conclusion was meant by this word. An example:

This club is calling for new members’ applications, and it will accept only select ones.

Now, there are actually two ambiguous words in this sentence – “it” and “ones“. Is the sentence referring with the word “ones” to “members‘” or  “applications“? In this sentence (probably a bad example), both the members and their applications are in question. To which do the words refer? “It” refers to the club but what about the other?

These unclear words can prevent clarified reading. They stop a reader in their tracks and beg the question, “What?!”

Next time you are writing, be aware of soft and ambiguous language. Clarity and detail-oriented words are the goal.

Until next time . . .

Collision and God’s Grace

So, apparently, I’m lucky to even be sitting here. Typing one-handed, I’m fortunate to be typing at all. If you have a weak stomach, turn back now. These crash photos, well, are scary to even look at.

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That’s my Toyota Corolla.

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The top was cut off to get my out. If you don’t believe in God and his grace, I invite you to look again. He’s there, and was the night this happened. I survived.

Then again, maybe I’m just a bigger bad ass than I thought. Or, maybe God really likes my sense of humor. Either way, I’m still here. (Big smiley face!)

#coolprompts – The Foiled Get-Away

In response to the #coolprompts post on my good buddy’s blog, I wrote this fact-based story. Fact-based because I know someone who actually attempted such a foolish feat. Check out my story titled The Foiled Get-Away based on the initial quote.

 

“Stealing isn’t so easy, often it’s hard work, otherwise we’d all be doing it.” Elfriede Jelinek’s quote came to Chevar’s mind as they pulled up in front of the store. Theft may not always be easy but sometimes the powers that be make it ridiculously simple.

Angela and Chevar pulled up to the curb at Hobby Lobby. There they sat. About one hundred planting pots. Just sitting there out on the front walk with the store itself closed for business. “Time to go to work,” she said and popped the trunk.

They had no plan. Just grab pots. There was no previous discussion. They planned as they went. “No,” she said. “Put those there and these inside those. There. There ya go. Now those.” They grabbed what must’ve been half Hobby Lobby’s inventory and stashed them away in the back.

“Too easy!” she said as they made their grand get-away. They skated off to the ‘hood where she sold them to her fence. He bought all for half price, his usual sum.

The next night, Angela made plans. Same thing as the night before for her and Chevar. No grand plan as to what to get – just pots. And lots of them. They’d stack the trunk full.

The two neglected to pass in front of the store first to scope the scene. They pulled around back and by the store’s side. Their lights caught a man’s face as he drank from a cup in the security vehicle that had taken up residence on the parking lot’s side. They had taken for granted that no one would be there. Great! How would they explain this as the security vehicle turned its roof lights on ablaze in blue?

Chevar said, “Yep, too easy, alright.” The cuffs tightened around their wrists.

Take care, all, and stick to the light.

 

‘Best Detectives of All Time’ Challenge – The Infamous Cannoli (18+ NSFW!)

So, I was given a writing challenge. I do love a good challenge. The challenge was to write a singular note but I got creative and wrote a dialogue-driven story. With the gauntlet thrown down, I chose to pick it up.

However, this partially pornographic short story has innuendo to spare for eons. It may not be safe for work. Just letting you know up front. Without further ado, here’s the story based on the given photo (below) titled The Infamous Cannoli.

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The story:

“Okay, Mrs. Canetti, I have only one question for you: why were you tied to a boat naked with a cannoli in your hoo-hah?” the detective asked her straight up.

“What? What are talking about? There was no cannoli in my hoo-hah! That’s disgusting. And besides, I hired you to follow my husband Jack.”

“Well, I know he wanted to put his cannoli in your hoo-hah. All those perverts are all the same. Give ‘em a brush and they take the whole palette.”

“Yes? Well, I’ve saved my palette for one man and one man only – Jack Canetti. He has my heart and always will. I was having a painting done for his birthday. Just like he likes me. In my birthday suit. And I was sure you’d find him doing nothing with anyone else anyway.”

The detective studied a minute. “So, Mrs. Canetti, there was no cannoli, you say. No cannoli canoodling of any kind.”

“None whatsoever. The artist was a perfect gentleman. He ate his cannoli. I ate mine. With a brisk spot of tea.”

“So, you’re sure he never ate your cannoli?”

“No one would eat my cannoli! I wouldn’t allow it!”

“Well, in the throes of passion, I’ve been known to eat a cannoli that I otherwise might necessarily not have. Does the man you’re saving yourself for like cannoli? These are all standard questions.”

“Yes. Standard if you make porn movies! What kind of detective are you? The porn police?!”

“I’m simply gathering all the facts, ma’am.”

“Well, gather them somewhere else! And get out of my kitchen!”

The Canetti door slammed in the detective’s face. He wasn’t sure, but he thought about cannoli. One might hit the spot. He ventured off to Panera and its fabulous all-you-can-eat cannoli bar.

That’s the story. I was told to link back and nominate FIVE blogs to participate possibly. But, just because I throw down said gauntlet your participation is not required. You’ll not lose any cool points with me if you don’t.

 My Five is Only Four:

ALYAZYA – A little something for you.

Keith Kreates!

Feelimn Hunter – Emotional Scenes

Little Fears – Tales of Whimsy, Humor, and Courgettes

 

The rules:

1.You are a private investigator. You have worked for Mrs Sally Canetti during the last 3 months – chasing her cheating husband. Write a short note to her (based on the artist photo up top). 

2. You can skip #1 (non obligatory).
3. Pick 3 best detectives of all time (movies and literature). Add the pictures/gifs if you like. Explain shortly your choices.
4. Pingback to this post-url (not to the page!).
5. Spread the word – up to 5 blogs. Be creative!

 

HAVE FUN, EVERYONE!

 

July 8th – Sunday Photo Fiction

Oh, I do love a good writing challenge and this one may as well have thrown me a curve ball. I’ve never been to New York City, much less Radio City, but felt a flash fiction story inevitably arising. So, for the following photo, the story comes in at 199 words.

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Photo credit: Susan Spaulding

Without further ado, here is the story titled Yeah, Radio City.

Yeah, well, the stage – not as big as I thought, I’ve found. Radio City, in all its glitz and glamour and history, is magic, no doubt. But its size? I expected so much grander. Like at least the size of a good ocean liner or a carnival cruise ship. Something sizeable. This little nit-picky stage is supposed to hold the Rockets, for God’s sake.

 When my turn came, it was just me. And I tore up that stage. I danced. The singing was an aside to my spectacular moves. I was a Radio City Goddess – a legend. I made more out of the small space than Britney Spears on Ecstasy. I ripped that floor a new one and named it after myself. If fireworks had been attached to my heels, they’d have fired me to the moon.

I wrecked that stage like I was Rommel in the desert. I blasted the tunes and couldn’t keep my boots still. That was about the edge of the gambit. And the very short stage.

When I got up off the audience floor, the applause was worth the broken collar bone. I swore I’d never dance Radio City again. Until my next performance.

 

Wow – Tag, You’re It!

So, apparently, my tags have been way too narrow and I’m not being seen. Now, I’m by no means an expert, but apparently the broader the tag, the better?

We will test this theory. I used one Category – Current Events – and the rest broad Tags – Art, writing, broad words (for the hell of it), and philosophy. I’m wondering if I should drop Categories altogether. Hmm, a thought.

The Perfect Number Ninety-Eight

Yes, the perfect number for personal reasons is indeed the number Ninety-Eight. Not only is this season the Vols won the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl and defeated the Florida State Seminoles (although, I’m not really a Vol fan) but also it holds a personal magic for myself, which shall remain nameless lest it lose its magic. Okay, okay, that personal magic is including, but not limited to, the fact that I now have 98 followers. Woo-hoo! Go me.

So, in celebration of my ninety-eight followers, feel free to celebrate in whatever way you feel necessary. Be it religious sacrament or a healthy hog leg, you decide and fire that bad boy up. Here we go, a Modest Celebration! I know, I know, not much to celebrate when some blogs that been around half the time as mine have twice to ten times the following.

At any rate, fire that Monster up!

#coolprompts – Modesty Is the Best Policy

Ah, I do love a good writing challenge. And Ray never seems to disappoint, Bradbury or not. So, for the Cool Prompts challenge, the hat I’ll be throwing in the ring is this little 128 word ditty Modesty Is the Best Policy. The story follows. Check it out and feel free to comment your suggestions for later posts, objections to this post, and/or any creative reflections that this post brings to mind.

“Well, in all modesty, I think I could eat a cow’s back end and still not get full. Knock off the horns, hose him down, and throw his butt on the grill, I say.”

“Son. I believe the saying is ‘in all honesty’,” his dad iterated.

“Well, in all honesty, modesty is not my forte. I could light up a hand full of candles simply from the amount of sparks shooting off my hot head, right now,” his only son added.

“Um, hot head?” his dad misunderstood his statement.

“Yes, I’m so damn hungry my head has ignited with ideas on how I’m going to get all that cow’s hindquarters off the plate.”

“Fork?” his dad suggested.

“Yes, and a very agile steak knife,” his son added again.

Happy 4th of July, y’all. Let freedom ring like a cow jumping through bailing wire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Put Your Left Foot In . . .

I do love a good writing challenge. A buddy from another blog posted this challenge and its rules. Check it out if you’d like.

Here it is. My fictional account of bad dreams and bad puns titled It Hooked Me.

It’s the clown, pun pardoned. Clowns scare the hell out of me. And Pennywise from Stephen King’s novel It is undoubtedly the epitome of scary.

Pennywise the clown never really affected my psyche until he was coupled with one of my more worse fears – Aichmophobia. I have reoccurring dreams about needles and fishhooks in my fingers. Anglers or needle bearers will accidentally stick my finger with a needle or cast off and inevitably hook a finger. And it hurts!

One night, probably after some bad Chinese food, there was Pennywise. No question that this sadistic man had pain in mind – my pain. And he reveled inevitably at the thought of delivering it. My dream began innocently enough. I sat on the bus stop bench drinking my Dr. Pepper. I heard a soft clatter. The clatter grew louder but was no clatter at all. It was his laughter. I heard him laughing behind me and, when I turned, he cast his line. My line-of-sight shrunk from his maniacal face at a distance to my hand up-close and personal. I saw the hook fly over my head and embed itself into my index finger.

The hooking wasn’t the part that maniacally chilled me, so to speak. It was what happened next and what he said, “Dance. Dance, little puppet!” I had suddenly been magically transformed into a marionette. I was literally his puppet. Not a male but of the female variety. And I wasn’t just dancing any dance. I danced an extravagant, pole-dance version of the Hokey Pokey, the irony. I was his personal, plastic stripper. I awoke not only ashamed but also scared out of my bloomers.