Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts

Friday, November 02, 2012

11.2 ~ The Suite Life

Today's writing prompt, courtesy of BlogHer: If you could live anywhere, where would it be?



Psh. That's easy.

I would live in a hotel. Seriously. I could say I'd live in Hawaii or on a vineyard Napa Valley or in one of those cute huts with a glass floor that sits on the end of a long pier over clear blue water in Fiji - all of which would be incredibly lovely. I would still choose a hotel.

I love hotels! C'mon ~ welcomed warmly upon my arrival, a cute boy holds the door and helps me with my bags/luggage/stuff, there's a bar, there's a restaurant, there's a king-size bed. I like all of these things! I'd live in a modern and beautiful hotel, of course ~ overstuffed chairs in the lobby, flat-screen TVs, gorgeous fresh flowers in huge vases, black and white photos and abstract art work on the walls, free wifi, private cabanas with bar service around the rooftop pool. Ahh, ain't this the life?

If I'm being honest, what I love most about hotel living is no responsibility. Need something? Make a phone call - BOOM! - it comes to you. Dirty dishes? Leave 'em outside the room - BOOM! - gone. Someone to clean up after me. Make my bed, leaving extra pillows. Tidy up where I've left a messy trail.

Whoa! Wait a minute. This almost sounds like I want to live at home with my parents. Uh, no thanks. Don't get me wrong - I love my parents! It's funny how when I show up my mom all of a sudden needs something/anything/everything off the top shelves or out of the highest cupboards. At 6'2", I am my 5'5" mom's living step-stool :)

So, I'll take the suite life, thankyouverymuch!

If you could live anywhere, where would it be?

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Nothin' But a Good Time!


I've worked in the entertainment industry for over ten years. I'm lucky to work at one of the most recognizable studios in the world. And, I'm lucky not to be jaded - walking on the lot still makes me giddy. 

In these ten years, I've had the chance to experience some incredible things - TV show tapings, an intimate tour of shooting locations for Blade Runner with Ridley Scott, even a movie premiere. But, last Friday night was THE MOST INCREDIBLE EXPERIENCE EVER!

A few weeks ago, I sent an email offering to work the Rock of Ages premiere. Honestly, I didn't expect a response. Secretly, you know I wanted one.

So, I waited. Patiently. (Hey - I'm a Taurus, we're patient people.)

And, I was rewarded. My name was on the staff list for the premiere and after party WITH POISON AND DEF LEPPARD. OMG OMG OMG OMG! Talk about giddy - was I ever! I had two assignments for the night - inside and outside. AND - we were to dress in 80s attire! Aww yeah! I mean, really. It's Rock of Ages! THE epitome of 80s rock - big hair, acid wash, neon jewelry and blue eye shadow. COME ON! 

I only had a week to come up with an outfit. Finally, I narrowed all my possibilities down to 2 options. All the while, I'm fretting about the night because it would be my first premiere - what could I expect? What would be expected of me? What do I do? What does all this mean?! Thank God for Liz and Karen! Both assured me, reassured me and answered all of my silly questions. Beyond that, both were excited by how giddy and excited I was to attend. And, they helped with my outfit.

Fast forward to premiere day - a lot of Aqua Net and a lot of blue eye shadow. Ai yi yi! I wore my English Beat Special Beat Service t-shirt, black lace mini skirt, tights and black motorcycle boots. My hair was slicked back on one side, the other side hanging down over my eye. I wore a gorgeous orange/red eye shadow with blue eye liner that extended out to my hairline. Oh yeah. I rocked that look on one eye. I also wore one earring. Dude, I was kinda rad.

Inside the theater, I was nervous. David walked me around, showed me the sections and tried to calm me down. Once the soundtrack started, I was totally fine - I just sang, rocked it out. It was fun and we all were there for a good time, so I had one.

I think it's awesome to see movie stars. On only two occasions have I been the "loud obnoxious give me your attention" girl - the time I saw the Ocean's 11 cast playing shirts versus skins basketball (::thud::) and when I saw Ryan Gosling last week (::thud:: #2). Other than that, I'm "Hey, look" and the end.

But...put me with musicians? Oh, my. It's a different story! This theater was filled with 'em. I wanted to tell Lita Ford how she inspired me to be courageous. I wanted to explain to Kevin Cronin exactly what I felt when I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time with Roll With the Changes blaring. I wanted to yell at Debbie Gibson for throwing away the roses my friend gave to her. Segments of my life were represented in that room. I wanted to address each one. I wanted to thank or yell or hug and relive each one.

At the after party, I handled a table - making sure the guests had what they needed. I was pretty damn close to the stage. I was pretty damn close to tears. When Poison came out, all I could do was dance. So, I danced away from the table. The band ran through six classic songs - so much fun! I love it when I know all the words :)

Then, Riki Rachtman came onstage. My 15 year-old self started to shriek and yell - It was starting...

WE CAN'T STAND WAY BACK HERE! MOVE MOVE MOVE!

OK OK OK! We will. We will.

Gunter glieben glauchen globen


ALRIGHT!

My teenaged self took over at that precise moment. And, we moved right on down, in front of Vivian Campbell and Rick Savage, to the side of Joe Elliott. ::swoon:: 

Def Leppard ran through six songs ~ Rock of Ages, Hysteria, Foolin', Bringin' on the Heartbreak, Armageddon It and, of course, Pour Some Sugar On Me. Holy crap! I danced and screamed and sang and screamed and enjoyed the whole thing! It was amazing. They were so incredible! I am trying to find adequate words...I can't.

I tried to hold onto the night...did the best I could...but it ended. I know other premieres and after parties won't be like this one. That's okay. I am so ridiculously grateful to have been there, done that.

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Girl of 100 Lists - 2011.

family

two weeks in Hawaii

shark dive

third row for Duran Duran

a weekend of the Fixx

an 80s weekend with my favorite 80s bands

44

featured post at the3six5.com

cleared clutter in six weeks

people in my place for the first time

relapsed in six weeks

first piece of furniture in my place

writing - judged, defeated, pencils down

writing - fuck that, I'm good, resumed

friends - fun, laughs, love, bonds strengthened

Adele, Florence, GirlTalk, Mayer Hawthorne, G Love, Belle Brigade, ABC, Tony Hadley, Truth & Salvage Co

weddings

funerals

English Beat to close my year

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The You're Awesome Holiday Letter - by Slackmistress

One of my most favoritist people on the planet is the Slackmistress. She is uber cool and lovely and nice and funny and a fantastic writer. Below is her post from yesterday ~ the "You're Awesome" Holiday Letter! What a great idea, huh? Yeah, that's why I'm sharing it with y'all :)


The You're Awesome Holiday Letter

Every year instead of getting gifts that are probably awesome but just add to our "stuff" I send out a "you're awesome" letter. To friends, family, or random people on the Internet. Sure, it's not commercialized and it doesn't kill the environment and you can't unwrap it and force a fake smile ("IT'S EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED!") and it's not a Lexus with a shiny bow.

But it's free, it's easy, and it just takes a little bit of time to make someone's day.

So pretty much not what the holidays are about. But I encourage you to do it anyway.

Tuesday, October 04, 2011

"Damn, girl! You're tall!"

I took an awesome writing workshop on Sunday morning at The Writing Pad. It was all about themed blogging. So informative! We even had a couple of writing prompts - yay :)  Following is my written-in-eight-minutes piece.


~*~*~*~*~*


I'm 6'2"


I've been this tall since I was 16 years old. I think I finally got sued to my height around age 30. Which was also the time I gave up wearing flats.


I love love love heels! I love how they look. I love how I feel when I slip into a great pair of heels. I read this quote about how a woman in heels talks in paragraphs. I want to talk in paragraphs!


Tuesday night, I had 3rd row seats for Duran Duran at the Nokia Theatre. I didn't get too dolled up, but I did wear my 4-inch orange platform heels. I briefly considered a shorter heel. But the orange added that "pop of color" Clinton and Stacy always talk about.


So, we're standing in line at the bar. "Damn, girl! You're tall!" I hear it at least once a day. "No, it's just the shoes." He looked down. "Yeah, I guess it is. Still hope you don't stand in from of me tonight." Yeah, I hope I don't either.


But, I do know I will be standing - all 6'6" of me - in front of some poor short person. That person will wither play 20 questions with me or stew silently.

Friday, June 03, 2011

Filch It Friday - Finding Neverland: Can We Talk?

It's been a while since my last Filch It Friday. This post is awesome enough for it to be rekindled. I almost don't want to wait until Friday!

Finding Neverland: Can We Talk? ~ please visit!

Can we talk?

Can we sit and have a cup of coffee, ignore the world for a while, and get down and dirty in conversation?

I don't want to chat. I don't want to talk about work emails and feeding schedules, late nights and laundry.

Can we, just you and me, grab intimacy by the horns and throw out all those ugly truths that we cover up with our secondary emotions and busy lives?

Can you tell me if you're carrying around regret? I am. What would it be like if we admitted all the things we wish we could have done differently?

If you woke up tomorrow to find that you had lost everything you find important, what would you have lost?

Do you feel safe enough with me to share your most private and embarrassing moments? I once glued my butt cheeks together and then to the bottom of a scalding bathtub for 45 minutes, in a terrible at-home waxing attempt. How about now?

Late at night, when the world is quiet and dark, when the conversations are over and the TV is off, what emotions lie next to you and cradle you to sleep?

Have you mastered the art of forgiveness? What does forgiveness really mean to you? Whom have you not forgiven?

When someone hurts you, how do you treat them afterwards? Do you recognize when you've done wrong? How do you apologize?

What was the last thing that made you laugh aloud and with whom were you sharing that moment? Was it the person you wanted?

What drives you, motivates you, inspires you? What scares the hell out of you?

Do you ever wonder if the fault you place on others belongs closer to home? Do you intend to change that?

What dreams do you have that you're too scared to chase? What dreams feel too impossible to even consider?

How much of an attempt do you put towards questioning yourself - your own thoughts and feelings and actions? Do you take the time to see whether they are rational, healthy, self-destructive, hurtful to those around you? Do you put the effort into really knowing yourself and the type of person you want to be?

What type of person do you want to be?

Are you happy?

Are you brave? Brave enough to take risks? Brave enough to throw everything on the line when you're completely unsure? Brave enough to test your own limits? Brave enough to break the mold and abandon everything that feels comfortable and safe to you? Are you brave enough to choose against failure, even when failure seems like the only option? Are you brave enough to give of yourself past the point at which you think you have anything to give? Are you brave enough to readily, assuredly, honestly, passionately be yourself?

I don't want another twenty-question survey about your favorite movie or whether chocolate or vanilla is your preference. Can we just talk?



Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Write.

"Perhaps it would be better not to be a writer, but if you must, then write. You feel dull, you have a headache, nobody loves you, write. If all feels hopeless, if that famous “inspiration” will not come, write. If you are a genius, you’ll make your own rules, but if not – and the odds are clearly against it – go to your desk, no matter what your mood, face the very challenge of the paper – write."

J. B. PRIESTLEY

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

05.24.11

If you haven't, you should check out this terrific blog The 3six5 - http://the3six5.posterous.com/. It's a journal written by people all over the world. Each day a new contributor shares his or her world in 365 words or less. For May 24, I was asked to pinch-hit. Below is my day.


This morning, I sat in the middle of my apartment surrounded by 2 laundry baskets and several gift bags. I was in full-on 'panic' mode because tomorrow the Los Angeles City inspector is coming in to inspect my apartment. This wouldn't be cause for alarm for most. For me, it's akin to a 4-alarm fire and I'm trying to find an escape route.

I am a compulsive hoarder.

Nine weeks ago, I made the commitment to clean up my crap. I had 12 years worth of stuff stacked, piled, crammed and hidden in every available space in my studio apartment. There were 2 paths – one to the kitchen, one to my bed. My nightstand was a stack of REAL SIMPLE magazines (I know, right?!), each one earmarked on articles about cleaning, clearing and living simple.

Three weeks ago, I had friends in my place for the first time ever. I was nervous and edgy and jumpy and freaking out my friends would look at my space with the same judgmental eyes as me. Chickens said “Stop being the hamster on the wheel.” But, it couldn’t be helped. Those feelings didn’t get tied up in Hefty bags like my clutter.

The shame and embarrassment of being a hoarder is often unbearable. The shame is oh so heavy. When I looked at my cleared space after everything had been tossed, I sat on that heavy shame, triumphant and proud. This morning, shame sat on my chest, crooning “Told ya so! Told ya so!” I listened and was this close to singing that familiar tune. I won’t. I can’t. I just can’t go back to ‘living’ with paths and stacks. I want to sometimes; I want the comfort and protection the clutter provided. I have to fight that. I have to find comfort and protection elsewhere (apparently, food is a good remedy for this, but, I digress).

It’s only been 3 weeks and some of the clutter is back. And, tomorrow, I have an apartment inspection. So, I sit here, thinking where I can cram these things and still pass inspection? And, what happens if I don’t pass?

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Creative Writing In-Class Assignment 10.26.10 - Best & Worst Gifts EVER

Ten minutes to write about the best gift and the worst gift ever received.


Worst gift ever? EASY!


My godmother, bless her heart, was a bit...oh, y'know...crazy. She was a very dear friend of my parents and of my grandparents; made sense she would be named my godmother. Every birthday and every Christmas, she would send money. OK, she would send a card, but there was money inside and that's what I wanted.


At the age of fourteen, we spent Christmas eve with my grandparents in San Pedro. It was a change to our traditional tradition and I liked it. Mainly because it meant homemade lemon meringue pies. (Hey - that's a contender for best gift!) Anyway, my godmother, stopped by that Christmas Eve. I remember a green-wrapped box and something about giving a gift instead of a card and money. Didn't she know I had plans for that money?! So, there I sat - me, fourteen years old and a green box. I ripped the paper to find...


The Jamie Somers Bionic Woman board game. Seriously.


And it gets better!


The game? Used. Uh huh. Battered box, round yellow sticker with "$1" handwritten on it and two of the Bionic Woman's teeth blacked out.


What a tremendous waste of a dollar.


Best gift ever? I don't even know. Loads of gifts have been the best gift ever at the time...Rick Springfield tickets, Duran Duran tickers, my first dual-cassette stereo, the California King bed I got in ninth grade, surfing lessons...with firemen...in Hawaii - yeah, that was pretty stellar. I'm leaning toward being asked to marry Laura and Jerric. I guess it's a gift, right? Maybe it's a gift from me...? Oh, I don't know. This class is a gift. To me, from me. This journal is a gift. On tour with Squeeze and the English Beat was a gift. Each of you is a gift - well, your friendship is a gift. Yeah, I guess all gifts are best.


And that's how I am wrapping this up.

Creative Writing In-Class Assignment 10.26.10 - writing prompt

Ten minutes to write on the following prompt:


The town is so quiet. Its heart beats just twice a day when the train goes through.


Tumbleweeds roll. Dust clouds spin. Leaves on the trees sway. Jeb had ridden past, ridden through this town dozens of times. Good and bad points to being a hobo. First time through, Jeb fell in love. Perfectly manicured lawns, tidy white houses, blue shutters, floral curtains and porches that wrap around the house. 10:05 a.m. and 6:37 p.m. Number 733 rolled through the town. Ladies waved at the train from doors, windows and porches. Kids waved from bikes, trikes and bus stops. Men waved from corners, cars and lawns. Every day, twice a day. Jeb thought this must be the friendliest place in the world.


He jumped from the 733 and went looking around town. Hadn't he just seen women and kids waving? Didn't he just see a group of men chatting on the corner? Where did they go?


He walked along Front Street, which ran parallel to the tracks. The streets were clean and quiet. He stopped at the corner of Front and Mirage, staring at a tidy white house.


"Aw, hell!"


Jeb jumped at hearing the exclamation. Up the steps, onto the porch, Jeb peered in through the front window. Inside, a little old man rifled through a heavy metal tool box and muttered to himself. The old man was working on some sort of a cutout, attached to springs, that lay flat on the floor. He tinkered and cursed then stepped back. The old man hit a remote control; up popped the cutout from the floor. A cutout of a woman smiling, one hand waving automatically. Jeb slumped against the wall and slid to the porch.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Flash Fiction Writing Challenge - Round 1/Challenge 2

genre ~ Romantic Comedy
location ~ a plastic surgery clinic
object ~ spider web

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her black leather portfolio wreaked as much havoc as she had, Monty mused. After sliding across the tile floor, collecting its crumbs and spilled coffee and grime, the notebook hit – and broke – the leg of a display stand. Let’s just say it was a bad day to be low-man on that coffee shop’s totem pole. The portfolio’s owner had managed to spill coffee on the businessmen behind her and the twenty-something next to her. Red-faced and apologetic, she turned and hefted her tote bag onto her shoulder…only to have the strap break, sending the bag’s contents to the floor. Her pièce de résistance was executing perfect splits while dozens of colorful sugar packets rained down on her like confetti. The patrons of the coffee shop erupted in applause when she triumphantly threw her arms up as if ending a perfect Olympic gymnastics routine. She stood, curtsied and walked out. It was quite an amusing sight.

“8.75 – it was a sloppy routine,” said a frumpy soccer mom seated at a table nearby.

“No,” clucked her companion. “She gets a solid 10 for the splits alone!” They laughed.

The cheap brown napkins were better suited for smearing than wiping off, but Monty did the best he could to clean the nice leather. The letters ‘DW’ were embossed in gold on the corner of the portfolio. He opened it, pulling out papers looking for a clue as to the identity of the owner.

“Do you always snoop through other people’s belongings, sir?” Monty met her weary gaze with a grin. She was still red-faced and not amused.

“Only when trying to find out to whom the belongings belong to, madam.” Monty put the papers back inside and closed the portfolio. He held it out to her. With no hands free to grab, Monty tucked it into her broken tote bag. She turned, started to leave.

“You’re welcome.” She looked back at him.

“Uh...thanks…” she smiled weakly. “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough morning. The very last thing I wanted to do was come back here. But, I need this thing. Thank you very much.” She adjusted her bag and jacket. “I’m Dorothy. I’d shake your hand but…” She shrugged.

“I’m Monty. It’s nice to meet you, Dorothy” he nodded. She turned and walked out the door. “Hey, wait…” Monty stooped to pick up pieces of yellow paper. He read the Post-It notes – his words, his writing.

She rushed into the office, late and completely disheveled. In the six months she had worked at the Viren Center, Toni had never been late.

“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry – it’s been a ridiculous morning.” Toni dropped her stuff beneath her desk and plopped down in the chair. Nadine, Viren Center’s receptionist, opened the glass partition.

“You look a mess! Are you okay? What happened?” Toni took a deep breath. There was no way to avoid sharing her story. In this office of women – including the doctors – her personal tales of humiliation and embarrassment were vicarious moments for the others.

“Oh, it was nothing. I simply put on a show for the patrons of Coffee Grinders…that’s all.” By this time, everyone had gathered at her office door or partition. No way to avoid it now, it was time for show number two.

“First, I spilled coffee on a few people. Then, my bag broke. My notebook knocked over a display rack. And I slipped and ended up doing the splits. I only scored a 9.85 – those judges can be so harsh. It was clearly a routine worthy of a ‘10’.” Her co-workers laughed.

“Toni, we need every single detail. Tell me more, tell me more!” sang Bonnie, the patient care manager.

“Dorothy,” a soothing voice came from the doorway. Dr. Viren always called her by her given name. “Are you okay?” Toni shrugged her shoulder and shook her head.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just embarrassed. I had to go back to get my notebook. Some guy was looking through it. He was thoroughly amused.”

“Glad you’re okay” said Dr. Viren. “Leslie wants to know if there’s a note today.”

“I don’t know…” For the past several weeks, Toni and one of the night janitor’s had been exchanging a series of notes. It started with a hand-written note on her Daily Affirmations calendar – crap read the sticky note.

She replied with why?

not an affirmation

what is?

She laughed when she saw a spider web drawn on a note with the words some pig written in it.

affirmation for the pig

The next day, two more spider web notes: terrific and radiant

Toni wrote good book
great book!

The one or two-word notes eventually became letters, though still written on Post-It notes. It was weird talking to someone you’d never met. Toni thought of the two of them as pen-pals – asking and answering questions, sharing stories and anecdotes as if writing a journal. Today, there was no note. Toni turned on her computer and started working, hoping it would erase the morning’s event.

Right before lunch, Nadine opened the glass partition and handed Toni an envelope.

“This was just dropped off for you, doll. I’m going to forward the lines to the answering service. I’ll meet you in the lot.”

Toni opened the envelope. Inside was a brown paper napkin; written on it was nice splits. She shoved it in her bag and walked out to meet Nadine. Monty was sitting on the bench.

“Hey…what are you…” Her face turned red. Toni pulled the napkin out of her bag. She held it up to Monty, cocked her head. He nodded and held up her collection of the notes they had written. She grabbed a pen.

great splits! Monty took the pen from her.

humble

“Hi, Dorothy.”

“Hi, Monty.”

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Flash Fiction Challenge 2010 - Part II

OK...Round 1, Challenge 1 scored me 14 points and a current 6th place standing. Round 1, Challenge 2 assignments were sent last night:

genre: Romantic Comedy
location: plastic surgery clinic
object: a spiderweb

I feel pretty good about this...

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Rock out with my ink out!

So, remember that writing contest I entered in August? Yeah, well, my story took 6th place with 14 points in Round 1/Challenge 1.

HOLLA!

Round 1/Challenge 2 starts tomorrow night. Another set of parameters [genre, location and object]. Another 48 hours to create a 1,000 word story.

The points total of Challenge 1+2 will determine if you (me) moves onto Round 2.

Super excited and totally proud of myself!

Friday, August 20, 2010

my Flash Fiction Challenge entry

Feast for Lady Simone
Challenge 1
Group 1
Sci-Fi genre - a magic show location - a sandbag object
(48 hours to write a story 1,000 words or less)
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Butch tried to look as disinterested as the others in the theater lobby. One hand shoved into the front pocket of his skinny jeans, the other tapping a rhythm on his thigh, he considered the art deco lamps a little too long. Shaking his head to focus on the now, he looked around at the others. All of them slight, young boys dressed in hoodies, “manpris” and skinny jeans; costumed as though it were a casting call. Small groups huddled in corners...separating, segregating themselves; diminishing, dismissing others. All of them leaning or lounging and feigning disinterest. Much like Butch.

The foyer lights slowly dimmed, hushing the crowd, their silence reverential. One spotlight illuminated twelve raven-haired beauties on the second level. Dressed in white halter tops with black bow ties, tight black leather pants and sexy stiletto heels, one by one the twelve descended the dual staircase. Perfectly executed, precise timing and practiced moves; measured, mechanical moves. Though some wanted to whistle or yell his appreciation, barely audible gasps were the only sounds. Butch watched, mouth agape, as the girls sauntered by him, through the parted crowd to the theater doors. Damn he thought. I’d like to get my hands on that right there...oh, yeah…

At the door, Butch was handed a pair of silver plastic glasses with three buttons on the wide temple. The gorgeous girl gave simple instructions: adjust as necessary and enjoy. Butch stared at her ruby red lips, hardly suppressing his urge to lick, bite and kiss them. Damn…he thought as he was pushed hastily into the theater. Butch strolled down the aisle, finding a seat on the end. He looked around, admiring the beauty and decadence of the theater – the gilded fixtures, the lush colors and fabrics. The heavy red curtain, with its gold-fringed embellishments, was lit by lights set on the edge of the stage.

Butch put on his glasses, tilted his head back and fingered the buttons on the arm of the frames. The button closest to the lens brought the ceiling zooming towards him. The middle button set his focus. The third button moved the ceiling back to its proper distance. Butch looked around as the others explored the theater with their newly discovered controls.

Under the theater, twelve more raven-haired beauties collected data sent from microchips hidden in each pair of silver plastic glasses.

The private chamber above the theater was a scene of striking beauty. An amazon, clad in a long red robe, stood in the center of the room, surveying monitors and computer screens. At her feet sat several young men, gazing up at her, adoringly. More raven-haired beauties stood at attention along a wall, awaiting a command and direction.

“Ten minutes,” said a red-haired boy.
She returned his adoring gaze. “Thank you, my love.”

With a simple nod of her head, two of her girls moved from the wall in measured, mechanical steps. She disrobed and allowed her girls to dress her in black halter top, black stockings, black shorts. She looked at the red-haired boy. “Boots.” He moved quickly, taking the black boots from one of her girls. He steadied her as she stepped into each boot. He knelt behind her, zipping one boot to a close above the bend of her knee. He licked and kissed behind her other knee, then zipped the boot. “Thank you,” he said, returning to sit in front of her. She drew him to his feet, kissed him lightly on his lips, turned and left the room.

The orchestra of raven-haired beauties played as lights flashed and swirled around the theater. Butch and the others waited anxiously for the show to begin.

“And now…the show you have all been waiting to see…may I present to you the magnificent Lady Simone!”

She strode confidently onto the stage. She smiled broadly, appreciating the whistles and thunderous applause. She stopped stage right, bowed slightly. She crossed to stage left, bowed slightly. She stopped center stage, smiling, until the applause ceased. Once it did, two of her girls walked in measured, mechanical steps from the wings and removed her cape. The whistles and applause started again; she bowed deeply.

The show was a tremendous spectacle of lights and illusions. Lady Simone moved in a confident, sexy way across the stage. The audience delighted in her magic, illusions and movement. She never stopped. She never spoke.

She took great pleasure seeing the smiles on the faces of the lovely young men seated in her theater. She would take great pleasure in them, indeed, as they were soon to be hers. Her boys were growing older. She needed to replace them. Her girls needed to be serviced and fed. Her girls would be pleased. And that pleased Lady Simone.

For her finale, Lady Simone brought four of her girls onstage. She hypnotized two of the girls. Lady Simone placed these girls, head first, into huge empty sandbags. With each bag tied tightly, the hypnotized girls were hung by their feet from a bar. This bar was then slowly raised out over the audience. Butch and the others boys pushed the buttons on their glasses to zoom and focus on the bags suspended above their heads. There was no movement. Well, none that they could see.

On the stage, Lady Simone was blindfolded and given a crossbow. As she drew the arrow back, one of her girls set it on fire. The crowd gasped then hushed. Lady Simone took aim, steadied herself and let the flaming arrow fly. The arrow hit its target perfectly, the bag exploding sending glitter and confetti raining down on the wildly applauding audience. Another arrow. Another perfect hit! More glitter, more confetti, more applause.

Within minutes, the theater was silent. By this time, Lady Simone had returned to her private room, now empty. She watched the monitors, watching her girls collect her new young men in the theater. She smiled, quite pleased. She left to prepare herself for The Feast.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Flash Fiction Challenge 2010!

I signed up for another writing contest. This time, it's the Flash Fiction Challenge - 48 hours to write a 1,000 word story with an assigned genre, location and object.

Last time I entered a writing contest, it was the Short Story Challenge - one week to write 2,500 word story. I took 4th place in my heat. Not bad for my first foray into writing contests.

I got my assignment last night: Sci-Fi genre, a magic show is the location and the object is a sandbag.

EEK!

I know nothing of Sci-Fi writing! I had a couple of ideas...ambitious ideas...so I slept on it. This morning, I took some time to formulate a story, one with a clear ending. And I started to write.

I am halfway through - in story and words. So, I'm letting it sit. I will edit what I have tomorrow; finish then submit by 8:59 p.m. EST.

*sigh*

When they said 'Challenge' they weren't lyin'!

Friday, July 09, 2010

NaBloPoMo 7.9

incorporate the following into the middle of your story:

...so, very slowly the old lady turned the corner and was so startled she dropped her bag of apples. Was she seeing things?



With a flick of her wrists, the beach towel floated to the grass. "Ahh, perfect!" smiled Sabrina, clearly pleased with herself. The scene was set - sprinkler on hight from the far side of the lawn so little droplets kept her cool, a cooler filled with ice and drinks so she wouldn't have to leave the lawn, the kitchen timer 'tick tick tick'ing so she knew when to flip over and her new sexy summer mix CD emanating through the window from the stereo inside.

Sabrina untied the tiny blue robe and let it pool around her feet. Across the street, two houses down, Dean's forehead smacked the bay window. "Holy shit!"

Mrs. Dawson shuffled down Verbena Drive with her recycle bag full of apples. Miguel Perez always had fresh fruit and vegetables on Thursdays. Mrs. Dawson would walk to the corner of Begonia and Magnolia, wait for Miguel's truck then return home with her apples. As she approached Avocado Street, Mrs. Dawson remembered to move cautiously in case Max, the big sheepdog, was outside. She always seemed to scare him and he would charge at her. So, slowly the old lady turned the corner and was so startled she dropped her bag of apples. Was she seeing things?

"My word!" she exclaimed.

Dean Carter was rubbing his hands all over Sabrina Stanton's body. Dean had straddled her legs...rubbing and massaging oil onto her skin, into her skin. Sabrina writhed and cried out with pleasure, her back archiing. Mrs. Dawson heard them giggle. Dean was encouraging her "Yeah, baby...ohhh, yeahhh..."

"Dean Allen Carter! What in the world are you doing! Sabrina Michelle Stanton! You outta be ashamed!"

They weren't. They just ignored her.

Thursday, July 08, 2010

NaBloPoMo 7.8

IM NOT DEAD
MEET ME TONIGHT
AT JOHNNYS PIZZA
TELL NO ONE


Four lines. All caps. No punctuation.

Pete didn't recognize the email address. He didn't have to know that to know the message came from Nichole. No one else had died recently. He deleted the email, closed his laptop and lit a cigarette. Only one question circled in his mind: Where the hell is Johnny's Pizza?

Pete pulled his Toyota 4-Runner into the small lot, parked and looked around. He expected the lot to be empty at 9:30 on a Sunday night. Instead, there three cars and two scooters. He sat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, his stomach a sour mix of dread and fear. "Aw, shit" he sighed, jumping out of the truck. He stood inhaling the cool summer breeze and thought of Nichole.

He hadn't know her long; he hadn't known her well. Like the breeze, she blew into his life, unexpectedly. It was at the 24-hour Rite Aid on Sunset and Fairfax. He was achy and miserable; she was sparkly and alive, something he didn't expect at 3 o'clock in the morning in a drug store. He remembers reaching for a box of Sudafed, it spinning and falling and he following it down. When he awoke, his head was in her lap, a blue velvet, fur-trimmed jacket covering him. 'You okay, champ? Let's go. I got chicken soup." She was a free spirit who took it upon herself to nurse him back to health. Nichole had also decided Pete needed mothering and she was the one to do it. The last time he saw her was the day he told her to stop the mothering.

Shaking her memories from his head, Pete smoothed his khakis and walked to the door. The red neon OPEN sign went dark as his hand touched the handle. A short rotund woman with an ample bosom, smiled sweetly and nodded as he walked in. Her soft pudgy hand guided Pete by his elbow through a curtained doorway. An old greasy-faced man offered up a tray with beverages. Pete grabbed a Coors Light bottle and a glass of water, fairly certain he would need more than one of each.

The rotund woman led Pete to a banquet room. He was surprised to see seven other people in the room, each seated at a small bistro table. He sat down as a candle was placed on the table between his water and beer.

Pete did not recognize anyone. No one spoke. No one looked around. Pete's leg started to bounce nervously. He chugged the beer to keep his sour stomach at bay. He did not have a good feeling about this at all. He stood, turned to walk out, but was stopped by a smile and an insistent shaking of the old lady's head.

Like a mirage, Nichole appeared. She looked sparkly and alive - much like the first time he saw her. She was wearing that same blue velvet fur-trimmed jacked over a white halter top and white sequined hot pants.

"Hello" she said to everyone and, oddly, no one. Her smile was wicked behind its sweet facade as she looked at each person. Her eyes were puffy, makeup smeared.

"No one came to my funeral. None of YOU came to my funeral. You were my closest friends. My cohorts. My confidants. Of all the people in the world, in MY world, you all were the ones I love and trust above all."

She stepped to a young girl in jeans and a Juicy Couture hoodie. "Betsy...you sweet girl...I took you in to my home when you were troubled and in trouble. I shared me with you. And you abandoned me."

POW!

A bullet to her brain.

"I should NOT have worn white."

Nichole stepped to the next two people - a boy and another girl. And wordlessly shot each one.

POW! POW!

Pete jumped.

The next two boys seemed to have a conversation with Nichole. Her smile softened a bit. She threw her head back, a silent mocking gesture, then fired two more shots.

POW! POW!

"Fuckers."

The two remaining girls lit cigarettes and called for a round of shots. Nichole raised her glass, clinked to a toast with the others and tossed back the drink. She smiled, kissed each of the girls.

POW! POW!

She walked to Pete. "Oh, Peter. Sweet, sweet Peter..." She stroked his hair, kissed his cheek. "Be a doll and take me to Rite Aid please. I'm going to need a Tide stick."

Wednesday, July 07, 2010

NaBloPoMo 7.7

I didn’t plan to steal anything that day. In fact, I had never stolen anything in my life. OK, that’s not exactly true. I did have a plan. It wasn’t a plan to steal; it was just a plan to get what I needed. Man, nevermind. I didn’t plan to steal anything.

I needed to get to California. I didn’t know where to go; just knew I had to go, had to be there. Phoenix was a dead-end, man. There was no music scene; no people worthy of being in a band. No one is serious about music. No ambition, no dream. My friends just want to party and smoke out. I do that, too; and I have dreams – a band, me making music, gigs every night. California, that’s the place to be, man…Los Angeles or any place around there would surely have a place for me and my bass. I can get myself to California; then what…?

That’s when I met her. We struck up a conversation on some party line. She lived in California – a city called Riverside. She had 2 jobs, a house, a car and no self-esteem. It was perfect; she was perfect. Within twenty minutes, she had given me tons of information – and her phone number. This was the perfect scenario, man.

We talked throughout the night, every night. She was desperate for affection and sex and love. I hate to admit it, but I used this to my advantage. Whatever, dude – gotta do what you gotta do. We would talk, I would dangle some sort of compliment, she would eat it up then I wouldn’t call her for days. She would call; she would always call – early morning, late night. I would sit there, listen to her messages then delete it. Her tone went from casual, to frantic, to distraught and then apologetic, like she’d done something. This went on for weeks. By this time, it didn’t matter what she looked like or what I looked like. I had her, man. And I was moving to California.

Let me say that I am a master of twisting words, manipulating them and, in turn, controlling people. It’s twisted, circular logic. A girl with no self-esteem is very easy to manipulate; especially this girl. I contradict myself, get her all turned around and she ends up agreeing with me, no matter the topic or how strongly she disagrees. She was thrilled with my plan to move to Riverside to “be with her.” I had her talking about all the things “we” could and would do and see – the beach, the mountains, the desert, her favorite places. I was agreeable – sure, babe; I’d love that, too, babe; I want to kiss you under the stars, babe – quoting that Eagles song. Damn, that was just too easy. When she pushed back at my moving in with her, I was surprised. I was also ready for her resistance. My voice took on a harsh tone; I didn’t raise it or yell. It was clear I was angry. I called her a tease (You said this is what you wanted – me out there to do all these things with), said she was mean, called her a liar, called her selfish. She was flustered; couldn’t get words out to make her point – or any point. Then I dropped the three little words on her, man – “I love you;” let that hang for a minute…”but you don’t love me.” She started crying. “I do love you…” I kept the stern tone, talking over her as she uttered, sputtered and cried. She caved in, of course; I would be moving to California, baby! And moving in with her. Done, man. Perfect.

Over the next year and a half, I was able keep her under control easily. The stern harsh tone worked best on her. She didn’t know how to deal with me being disappointed. She just wanted to please me, man. If I didn’t like the TV program, I would say so and she would apologize. If she liked something, really really liked something, I would dismiss it (and her) as being stupid or not worth my time and she would apologize. I bought her the new Gin Blossoms’ cassette, telling her the band is from Phoenix and I’d heard they were good. She loved it; played it all the time. When she would ask me to listen to a particular song, I’d scowl and call the music crap. “How could you listen to that crap? That’s not music. That’s crap!”

Yeah, sometimes I yelled and threw things. She yelled, too, so that didn’t work for me because I would want to hit her. I would see red and come so damn close to hitting her with my cane. I had to throw shit or hit something else. I broke out a closet door one night; and knocked the bathroom door right off the hinges! Damn, I was pissed. I don’t even remember why, dude.

I complimented her once in a while and crushed her often. It wasn’t too hard to be nice to her, any little thing from me made her happy. She craved physical affection; she ached for it, man. I would touch her then I’d shun her. She would even beg for it – that was a trip. Never has a girl begged for it, man. But, she did. Yeah, she did. She begged. Oh, man – one time, we were making out and her mom called. I told her it was a ‘sign from God’ telling us we should wait til we were married. It was total bullshit! It worked though. That was a good one…

Food was another way to keep her in control. I would buy Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream, telling her “I thought of you today. I love you.” Then, blast her shit for being fat as she ate it. I would read then throw away her mail, I didn’t tell her when family or friends called and I gave her mixed messages – give her food, call her fat; tell her I love her but refuse to touch her or sleep in the same bed. I took her car for my own use, forcing her to carpool or miss work entirely. I used our bank card and money with complete disregard, causing checks to bounce; which resulted in us being kicked out of our apartment. Whatever. This girl was so twisted up!

Damn, this one time…oh, man, this was sad but funny…I bought her an emerald ring for our first Christmas together. She totally loved it. I told her it was an engagement ring until I could get a decent one for her. One night, after late night band practice, I stopped to buy weed. I didn’t have enough cash, but my dude said I could bring the rest in the morning. When I got home, she was asleep of course. I took the ring, hid it in my guitar case. The next morning, before work, she was tearing up the house looking for the ring, but she didn’t tell me that’s what she was looking for. When she was ready to walk out the door, I said “Lemme see your ring, babe.” She stammered and tried to leave. I took on that stern tone of voice. Man, I ripped her up! She was shaking and so upset. I slammed the door on her. A few days later, our roommate showed her the receipt she found in the trash that showed I returned the ring, got my cash back. That was messed up.

So, no, I didn’t plan to steal anything that day; but I did. I broke her down and I stole her soul.