A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Usually, I would discuss my backpack and its contents. However, as they say, I will be short and sweet today. The most important thing I carry is my integrity. Possessing come and go, but your integrity can be forever.
I eat a lot of chicken and fish. So, I would like to learn several recipes to expand my palette. However, I do enjoy making anything that requires the use of an oven. However, I’ve been known to make some rather delightful applesauce. I can’t quite recall how that happened. I mean, I don’t remember any passed down recipes or anything, but I like applesauce, so I kind of figured out how to make it. I took it to my office on several occasions and it seemed to disappear. I’ve had similar experiences with my baked salmon.
Initially, I figured some knucklehead was throwing away my lunch. One day, I slipped out of my office and caught the thieves. Some of the ladies from another department were feasting on my lunch. When I confronted them, they simply responded by telling me that I should have brought more. So, in response, I got a lunchbox and used ice packs. Their response was that I was being mean and that I should share.
I also make some decent cakes. Well, at least my grandson seems to destroy each one I make. I took some into the office as a test, along with a blend of coffee I make at home, and before the break, it was gone. Now, several disasters occurred over the years before I perfected a few items. You know, a couple of them even suggested I open a restaurant. My response…
“I’m bringing in any more food! Nice try, hero.”
I’ve spent ridiculous amounts of money on this supposedly fine cuisine. More times than not, I’ve been severely disappointed with the outcome. I took my late wife to a fancy steakhouse that she had going on about for months. In the hope of some sanity, I took her to the restaurant. She made me get dressed up and everything.
The restaurant’s atmosphere was majestic, but the food was mediocre. My wife put on a smile as she ate her dinner. I wanted to ask for a refund, but I sat there with her, watching her enjoy her meal. After she finished, we sat and chatted a bit, enjoying the atmosphere. When we returned home, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out some ground beef. She stood there in her fancy dress cooking the ground beef.
She toasted a couple of buns with butter and garlic, then sat down at the table with her famous cheeseburgers for the both of us.
She took a bite of her burger and sighed, “That place was sure nice, but the food was horrible.”
I laughed as I ate my burger.
“We spent all that money and ended up eating cheeseburgers to get filled.”, she mused while smoking a cigarette.
“Yeah, but you’re sure wearing that dress,” I said deadpan. She chuckled and smiled mischievously.
The fancy restaurant wasn’t worth it, but sitting in our kitchen and spending time together was.
“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.”
— Maya Angelou
I remember my mother saying, “Boy, you’re in your own little world … ain’t you?” She said this with an amused and proud expression. Later, I learned my mother had been an artist in her youth, and I guess she remembered what it was like to be on another plane of existence. Other than life, I believe passing on her creative mojo was one of the greatest she gave me. Thanks, Mom!
Lately, I’ve been enthralled with the world of artificial intelligence, specifically image generation. Somehow, this artistic expression has woken up something I considered a thing of the past. I sketched long ago, and I started telling stories. I remember using my Big Chief notebook and filling it with random drawings. My teachers would scold me because I had no paper to do my lesson. After all, I had drawn all over them. However, the teacher called my mother and suggested she get a sketchbook. Mom brought me a Mead unruled pad, and the rest was history.
It seemed like everyone was an artist in those days. We tried everything; crayons, colored pencils, watercolors, etc. You named it, and we tried it. Quickly, I discovered I didn’t have a knack for anything color. So, I stuck to sketching. I listened to the accolades my friend’s parents would bestow on their creations. My Mom would simply shrug and go back to what she was doing. It may seem like she wasn’t interested in what I was doing, but that wasn’t the case. I never had to ask for a new pad or notebook. My supplies never seemed to run out. Even when I started stories, there was always plenty of paper and writing instruments.
It seems so long ago, yet I still return to this plane after a good session. Ever since my wife passed, my episodes have gotten worse. No mystery sandwich appeared on my desk, flickering lights letting me know it was time for bed, or my favorite, the warm blanket I nestled under while falling asleep in my chair, scribbling my latest stint into madness. However, I try my best to return in a reasonable amount of time.
Perhaps in enough time to post a story, picture, or photo. Who knows? Because most of the time, I’m in my own world.
As a kid, my idea of fresh fruit came from the market on a white tray wrapped in Saran Wrap. Of course, I ate apples from apple trees and stuff. However, I ran into many apples that needed to be ripe more or were too ripe. So, to solve this problem, the stuff on the tray was always right—well, at least of the time.
I married a southern woman, where dinner was a specific time and all that. I always looked at her strangely because I was hungry when I was hungry. One day, we were at her mother’s for dinner. Of course, my wife and her sisters had to show up early to assist in preparing the meal. The “men folk” had to sit on the carport until they sent for us. I was the youngest and the newest in the group. I sat there listening to garbage that older men sling at younger ones.
Suddenly, I was starving, so I went to tell my wife I would get something to eat while waiting for them to finish. You would think I had committed a cardinal sin or something. All my sister-inlaws started having a conniption about what I just said. Now, I was newly married, and my sister – inlaw’s had absolutely no sway. However, my mother-in-law made a sound in a tone that I recognized from my own mother. Quickly, I prepared myself for an exit. However, I came to my rescue, seeing my death was imminent. I didn’t know. I swear. How dare I walk into a kitchen of southern women cooking dinner and announce I was getting food from someplace. I want to point out here that making this announcement in any kitchen, anywhere in the world, most likely will have the same effect. Let’s just chalk this mistake to youthful ignorance.
My wife matched right outside, past the “men folk” laughing about something. I was hungry, and I got mean when I got hungry. There was a peach tree at the end of the driveway. My wife suggested I eat a few peaches to hold me over.
“From where?” I asked, looking confused and worried at once.
My wife returned my look. “The tree babe,” she said, pointing at the tree with several peaches on the ground around the trunk. I looked at my wife sternly.
“I’m not eating those,” I said firmly and began walking away, muttering over my shoulder, ” I only eat fresh peaches, you know, the ones on the white tray!” I had the classic duh expression on my face. It was something I used regularly back then.
My wife stood shaking her head and started laughing. She was holding her side and everything. I know I could occasionally be the source of extreme levity, and I didn’t feel this was one of those moments.
“They don’t get any fresher than these, hun, right off the tree,” she continued as she walked away. So, I tasted a peach. I was fully prepared to render I proper, “Woman, I told you.” However, I needed to be corrected. Those peaches were the best thing I had ever tasted. I ate one, then another, and another. Suddenly, I snapped out of my euphoric bliss.
“Boy, get down from there!” I hear a voice shout as I’m continuing stuffing more peaches down my throat.
“Girl, get your husband!” my mother-in-law told her daughter and looked back up at me. Boy, you part squirrel?”
I always liked it when MiMi called me Mister. It made me feel grown-up or something. Maybe special would be a better word. However, this excitement was only temporary. For the word Mister meant trouble. It wasn’t like she had every minute planned or anything, but you weren’t going to be sitting on your butt while she was working; no, sir!
So, I wondered how she would feel about sitting around and wondering how I would spend my day. I recently retired and haven’t gotten the hang of these as of yet. I still feel I need to be doing something. I’ve worked since I was 13, so sitting on my butt isn’t how I’m built. So, I suppose I waste most of my time these days figuring out what I will do.
You know, things like, what story am I working on? What kind of image should I create?
I’m constantly pestered with my choices to the endless questions that arise arbitrarily. For example, “Does that flower look real enough?” Should I grab my camera and go take some photos of real flowers? So, much time and so many different things to do. I would call my brother and ask him about my dilemma, but he isn’t retired yet. He makes a face when my other friend and I mention we are.
If I’m writing …
As I stood in what I now know to be the regions of my mind, the pathways guided me to the stories; vibrant globes were precious memories. I took a step, and I was frisked into a story. The whirl came into focus, and I was upon a horse galloping down a dirt path.
Does this opening have enough punch? I shake my head and go back to playing with images.
Is she who I envisioned when I created her?
So, you see, I spend most of my time wondering about stuff. Were there female pirates? If so, what did they really look like? Because Hollywood gets everything wrong. As I finish this post, I’ll leave you with MiMi’s immortal words.
“Boy, if you have time to wonder about all that, [pause] Whew! You need a job!”
When it comes to historical figures, there are too many people to name. That’s just the people we know all about. This doesn’t include the people who conveniently wrote out the annuals of history. I once met a man who worked as an engineer at NASA during the space race. I’ve never heard or read his name anywhere, but he was there. I saw the pictures and remembered the stories. Stories that were confirmed years later in books and motion pictures. But to ask someone about their favorite historical figure? Oh, come on, ask me a real question.
Who decided who is historic anyway? Who makes that determination? I don’t know them, do you know them? You pick up five different history books and have five different accounts of an event or person. Who knows the real truth. However, I love the journey of discovering more information about a person or a topic. There is nothing better for me. Well, until I incorporate that information into one of my stories and sit back, waiting for a local know-it-all to tell me I got my facts wrong. It’s always a pleasure to watch their forehead crinkle and their bunk. Then, they clear their throat to inform me of my error. Followed by this now historical line of conjecture.
“Hmm… this isn’t really historically accurate, but since it’s fiction, I’ll give it a pass.”
Like I give a flying f_ [beep]!
The history taught in schools makes me shudder. I remember asking one of my granddaughters about the history of the computer. Their response “Why does that matter?” I thought I was going to blow a gasket. Neither my children nor grandchildren understood my reaction. Which just increased my fury. They certainly didn’t have a problem. “Peepaw, I need a new laptop.”, “Peepaw, my laptop broke. Can you fix it?” How could something so instrumental to our existence not be taught in schools? They were still teaching Colonial America and the people who shaped it but weren’t teaching about the people who created the instrument they used to teach it.
Ada Lovelace isn’t taught in the history books. If it wasn’t for figuring out that computers could be used for more than calculations, we as a society wouldn’t be where we are now. Lovelace algorithm was built by countless inventors. So when I tell Alexa to play a playlist or ask Siri to set a reminder, perhaps they should have been Ada. Why not? I’m listening to a lecture on physics as I write this post on a pair of Bluetooth headphones. Thank god for Bluetooth; I could never find a pair of headphones with a long enough cord. Well, you can thank Hedy Lamarr for the algorithm. Yep, the beauty queen and movie star from back in the day.
Lamarr co-invented a frequency-hopping torpedo for the Allied forces during WWII, but it was never used. However, Lamarr’s frequency-hopping technology was later used throughout the U.S. military. I had used the tech for years before I knew Lamarr had a hand in its development. I was researching the Olympic games for a post and discovered something interesting. We have heard of Jesse Owens’s legendary exploits during the 1936 Olympics. He won four gold medals during the event and pissed off Hilter for good measure. So, he is always a cool person in history. However, have you heard of Cornelius Johnson?
Cornelius Johnson won the gold medal in the high jump, setting the record. Johnson was 23 years old when he accomplished this feat. Unfortunately, Johnson died in 1946, six months before his 33rd birthday. The United States did a podium sweep that day, meaning the gold, silver, and bronze were won by U.S. athletes. Dave Albritton, silver medalist, and Delos Thurber, bronze medalist, both outlived Johnson but were also left out of the history books.
We are who we are because of history, whether it be good, bad, or ugly. Each known or unknown event has helped you develop, no matter where you form. We need to appreciate what we can and learn from all of it.
My editor threatened to quit if I didn’t stop playing around with AI imagery. Normally, I don’t respond well to threats, but in her case, I’d be a good boy and start writing again. So long, lovely people who reside in the splinters of my mind. Well, not really so long, but your visualization will have to wait for a bit. Now, don’t pout. Hey, missy, why are you looking at me in that tone of voice? That goes double for you, mister!
Sorry about that. Can you believe these people? Trying to get out of my head any way they can, the nerve! As I was saying, I’m going to do a little for the next couple of days. Is that alright with you folks?
I hear the fluttering of its wings, my breathing quickens, and my heart begins to pound. My fingers inch their way to my inkwell. My quill and inkwell shun me.
“Come on, now don’t be like that!” I plead
My quill gives me a quick look, but my inkwell is not having any of it. He has been fooled before. I pause for a moment, thinking. Then, it occurs to me.
“Alexa! Oh, Alexa, Prince, please!”
“Playing Prince from Spotify playlist “They funky Sh**!” She replies as her blue lights lit the room. I watch the Inkwell begin to groove.
“Don’t hurt yourself, now!” I tease
“Shut up and write!” The Inkwell replies
So, the inkwell, quill, and Sophie continue grooving. I chuckle as I pick up the laptop and begin to do my thing.
What’s the oldest thing you own that you still use daily?
For whatever reason, AI has something against generating an image of a Dodge Ram, but whatever. I drive an old Dodge Ram that’s 19 years old. She needs some loving, but she still gets me where I need to go. I will start repairs sometime in the next few weeks. Hopefully, if the issues aren’t too severe.
To defend poetry effectively, we must first address a fundamental question: what is poetry? Only by answering this can we adequately defend it. My initial observation is that poetry itself requires no defense; it is the expression of poetry that sometimes needs defending. This notion may be provocative to some poets and poetry lovers, but I aim to clarify my point.
Poetry embodies the life we live; it surrounds us in every moment, from the warmth of a smile to the pain of loss. All of this is poetry. Humanity tends to categorize and label things, trying to define them to understand them better. This is a natural part of our daily lives. As we sort things into their rightful places, we find that some things fit effortlessly—poetry is one of those things. To me, poetry is like a butterfly that flutters unpredictably. We chase it, knowing we might never catch it, but the pursuit itself is joyful.
Suppose we do catch the butterfly. We place it in a jar with holes in the lid, displaying it for all to see. We admire its beauty daily, its vibrant colors that lie somewhere between soft and crisp. However, we often forget the most enchanting aspect of the butterfly: its flight. With the wings no longer spreading and the butterfly immobilized, it becomes a lifeless specimen on display—a reflection on a painted wall, devoid of the life that once captivated us.
The challenge arises in the expression of poetry. People start using words like “hate” or even stronger terms because, while they understand the essence of poetry as part of their lived experience, they feel alienated by its formal expressions. Terms like sonnet, haiku, and other forms can make us cringe or shy away, burdened by preconceived notions about what we will read or refuse to read. What we need is poetry—life—written in a way that people can appreciate, understand, and perhaps even come to love.
Thus, poetry doesn’t need defending; it needs to be set free. We should all have the chance to chase butterflies. I know I would love to.
A waitress stands outside, grabbing a smoke. She was three pats and a wink away from paying her light bill, but if that red fat-faced fuck touched her one more time, she’d scream.
Happy Friday,
Let’s pull out a separate piece of paper and develop a crazy character belonging to none of your current projects. Take 30 minutes and just have fun …
Why not? …
Enjoy your day!
Who do we become when the lights are out and no one is watching?
She sips her coffee, thinking about her first great love—that love she could never talk about—the love that fills her with joy and pain all at once. The joy is knowing what love truly is, not that stuff you read in romance novels or movies. Pain, well, if you know love, you know pain.
There were throwaways—well, that’s what folks called them back then. It meant no one wanted them. She felt that way until she met the woman who changed her life. She also fell in love with a boy who lived with the woman. He was like her, a throwaway. She knew she shouldn’t love him but couldn’t help herself. They spent one night together before he left for the war, and the war took him.
She’ll never forget how she felt the next morning. It felt like she was glowing from the inside. For it was the first day she felt whole.
Her lips told me I was just a fragment of a daydream put to words on a rugged day
Good Morning …Dawn is coming, and birds chirp a ballad about the people you don’t capture in verse. Those blessed & cursed Those looked upon with disgust. Without question, they fight for us. Tell their story today … its 4am
Though they may never admit it, all a man needs in his mate is a safe place to cry. No tear ever needs to plummet, but the sure fact he can, if desired, means everything.
Where did you hide the ship?
The sky growled like it was angry, and the clouds began to shift. Then, its tears fell against my window. They call it Stormy Monday.
After being raised by a single mom, I’m fully aware of the capabilities of women. I watched my mother face the challenges of raising an oddball son and never seemed to miss a beat. Even as a child, I wondered why they weren’t listed in the annuals of history. Surely, there had to be tough women like my mother throughout history? Of course, there were. I’m glad we have access to the information about these feats done by these amazing women. Will we be able to list them all or discover all the things women had a hand in? Probably not. However, I will use my platform to celebrate the courage of these women.
Beryl Markham’s life reads like an adventure novel, filled with groundbreaking achievements, thrilling exploits, and a legacy that transcends time. As the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic from east to west, Markham shattered the glass ceiling in aviation. Her memoir, “West with the Night,” offers a mesmerizing account of her experiences in early 20th-century Africa and her daring flights, showcasing her indomitable spirit. This blog post seeks to explore the remarkable journey of Beryl Markham, celebrating her contributions to aviation and literature.
Born in England in 1902, Beryl Clutterbuck moved to Kenya with her family at a young age, igniting her lifelong love affair with Africa. Growing up on her father’s horse farm, she developed an early passion for horses, which later translated into a pioneering career in horse training. Her fascination with flying began in Kenya, where she met Tom Campbell Black, a notable figure in her aviation journey, fostering her aspiration to take to the skies.
Markham’s aviation career was marked by a series of remarkable achievements. She became the first woman to obtain a commercial pilot’s license in Kenya. In 1936, she made history by flying solo across the Atlantic from east to west, facing harsh weather conditions and navigating by stars. This monumental flight secured her place in aviation history, showcasing her courage and skill as a pilot.
Markham’s life was replete with adventures that stretched beyond the cockpit. Her personal life, marked by several marriages and notable friendships with prominent figures like Denys Finch Hatton and Karen Blixen, added layers to her already complex character. Despite the challenges she faced, including financial struggles and societal constraints on women of her time, Markham’s resilience never waned, driving her to pursue her passions relentlessly.
Though primarily known for her aviation feats, Markham was also an accomplished author. Her memoir West with the Night, published in 1942, was praised for its lyrical prose and vivid descriptions of colonial Africa. Despite its initial lukewarm reception, the book was rediscovered and celebrated in the 1980s, heralded as a masterpiece of 20th-century literature and providing a nuanced perspective on Markham’s extraordinary life.
Beryl Markham’s legacy is multifaceted, influencing the aviation and literary worlds. Her daring spirit and groundbreaking achievements in aviation paved the way for future generations of female pilots. Meanwhile, her literary contributions offer a unique glimpse into a woman’s life who refused to be defined by the era she lived in. Today, Markham is remembered for her historical flights and as a symbol of courage, resilience, and the pursuit of one’s passions against all odds.
Embarking on this detailed exploration of Beryl Markham’s life will allow us to paint a comprehensive picture of her impact on aviation and literature. Starting with her early life in Kenya, we’ll weave through her many accomplishments, adventures, and the legacy she leaves behind.
As the sun began to set, the world, usually at 1000 mph, seemed quiet. The hustle and bustle of life, the constant noise, and chatter fade. It was as if the earth had taken a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then, it repeated it. At that moment, everything was calm; everything was still. It was a moment of perfect pause.
If you had to change your name, what would your new name be?
When i think of this question it reminds me of this ridiculous scene from back in the day.
If had to change my name … it just wouldn’t be me. I’ve gotten used to my crusty self. I’m frayed around a few edges and plump tattered around the rest. But, I’m me. My creaky bones sound off louder than ever. That’s because I’ve used them. I’ve laughed, cried and fought.
Typically, when comes to film adaptations, we got two categories:
“Oh my god that was horrible! The book is so much better!”
“Can you believe they did that? That’s not in the book!”
The majority of the film adaptation I’ve seen into these categories. I’m a huge Shawshank Redemption fan. I was a fan of the movie, before I knew it was an adaptation. I found it was based on a Stephen King novella, immediately I was turned off. Have you seen some of film adaptations of Stephen King’s stuff? I’m not talking about the recent adaptations or reboots. There were horrible. I’ve read several King books before seeing this film and enjoyed them. However, for some reason, King fell out of favor with me until I read his book about writing. Single malt scotch rained from the heavens, and all was right in the world again. I was back to being a fan.
So, I read Rita Haywood and the Shawshank Redemption, one of four novellas in Different Seasons collection. I fell in love with the movie even more. They did an amazing job with this adaptation. The casting of Morgan Freeman was a stroke of genius. I saw the picture above online somewhere and had to write something about what I could describe as my favorite movie. 30 years can you believe it!
Describe your dream chocolate bar.
How you gonna ask me a question like this?
Knowing I’m a diabetical … [scoffs] [rocking back and forth … muttering …] Strawberries, peanuts, covered nugget…ZZzzzz
[muttering] got me dreaming and shit … knowing I can’t have none of that goodness … That’s just wrong!
Where would you go on a shopping spree?
Shopping Sprees? I’m bold, daring, and a tad bit reckless. Slinging money left and right. Yep, that’s me. Three places I make it rain at. Amazon, local used bookstore, and local used record shop. I know it’s crazy, and I need to contain myself. Yes, I’ve thought about therapy. Perhaps, even joining some sort of support group. You know, stand up there sharing my tales of how I spent my money on a first-edition Poe. Perhaps I tell them about the thingamajig I got on the lighting deal. I saved so much I can’t believe I got it. What a bargain. You know, “that deal” sitting in the junk drawer, and you can’t even know what it is, not to mention why you brought it? Tell this to a perfect stranger? I don’t think so!
But I’ll go anyway because I have nothing to do on Fridays at 6:00 p.m. St. John’s has a lovely meeting room, and they spare no expense on the refreshments. However, the guy who leads the Thursday meeting at St. Agnes has a booming voice and stares at you with penetrating eyes. I find myself sliding down in my chair by the time he’s done. I’m thinking my shopping sprees aren’t diddlysquat compared to him. I’m just a cute little furry kitten.
When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?
When I was five, huh? I just wanted to fly. Then, jump motorcycles, run fast, be GI Joe, be a singer in a Rock & Roll band, and make my Mom proud.
This post has been over 30 years in the making. Let me explain with a little back story. So, in 1987, a guy I knew in high school suggested three albums. Over a period of several months, this guy and I had drunken conversations about heavy metal. During this time, I knew hardly anything about the genre beyond the typical bands everyone listened to at the time, Van Halen, Motley Crue, and alike. Plus, I had one huge disadvantage. I was Black.
Today, no one gives two shakes about what music you like, but back then, in my region of the world, it was a big deal. I recall getting flack for my taste in music. However, this one guy would come up to me, and we’d rap about metal and drink beer. So, the last album he suggested I buy was King Diamond’s Abigail. He gave me the rundown on how King Diamond used to be with Mercyful Fate and all that. So, I bought the album without reservations because his previous recommendations were solid. In fact, I still listen to those artists.
I put on this album and was immediately thrown. Yeah, I was mindfucked. There was no one there telling me they loved me. No foreplay or heavy petting. Just take this, and you’re gonna like it; I did. Abigail was nothing like any music I had heard before. I sat for hours trying to figure out what I was listening to. All I knew was that I was drawn to it. None of my friends listened to this style of music, so I couldn’t discuss the album. For years, I’ve tried to find someone I could talk to about this album. Either they couldn’t stand King Diamond or never heard of him. I even had people question why a Black guy was listening to heavy metal. Without further ado or hyperbole, I present King Diamond’s Abigail. This entire album is some eerie shit!
“Abigail” is a concept album that tells a gothic horror story set in 1845. The narrative follows a young couple, Jonathan and Miriam La’Fey, who inherit a mansion. Seven mysterious horsemen warn them about a terrible fate awaiting them if they stay in the house. Ignoring the warning, they encounter the spirit of Abigail, a stillborn child whose spirit possesses Miriam, leading to a tragic and gruesome series of events.
The album’s storytelling is a standout feature, with each song advancing the plot while creating a vivid, eerie atmosphere. The lyrics, written by King Diamond, are rich in detail and character development, immersing the listener in the dark tale. Songs like “Arrival,” “The Family Ghost,” and “Black Horsemen” are essential pieces of the narrative puzzle, each contributing to the unfolding horror.
Musically, “Abigail” blends heavy metal, speed metal, and progressive elements. Its complex arrangements, technical proficiency, and King Diamond’s distinctive falsetto vocals characterize it. The album showcases the exceptional musicianship of the band members: Andy LaRocque and Michael Denner on guitars, Timi Hansen on bass, and Mikkey Dee on drums.
The guitar work on “Abigail” is particularly noteworthy. It features intricate riffs, harmonized solos, and melodic passages, enhancing the album’s dramatic effect. Andy LaRocque and Michael Denner’s dual guitar interplay is a highlight, providing both aggression and melodic depth. Tracks like “A Mansion in Darkness” and “The 7th Day of July 1777” display their technical prowess and ability to convey the album’s ominous mood.
The rhythm section, with Timi Hansen on bass and Mikkey Dee on drums, provides a solid foundation for the album’s intensity. Dee’s drumming is dynamic and precise, adding to the album’s relentless energy, while Hansen’s bass lines add depth and complexity to the compositions.
“Abigail” is steeped in themes of horror, possession, and the supernatural, drawing heavily from gothic fiction and classic horror films. The album’s lyrics are filled with vivid imagery, creating a cinematic experience for the listener. King Diamond’s theatrical vocal techniques, including his famous high-pitched falsetto and menacing growls, bring the characters and story to life.
The atmosphere of “Abigail” is dark and foreboding, achieved through the music and the production. The album was produced by King Diamond and Roberto Falcao, who crafted a sound that balances clarity with a raw, menacing edge. The production emphasizes the album’s dramatic dynamics, from the quiet, suspenseful moments to the explosive, intense sections.
Keyboards and sound effects further enhance the album’s eerie ambiance. These elements are used sparingly but effectively, adding to the overall sense of dread and tension. For instance, the haunting intro of “The Possession” and the chilling conclusion of “Black Horsemen” feature atmospheric sounds that contribute to the storytelling.
“Abigail” is widely regarded as one of the greatest concept albums in metal history and a defining work in King Diamond’s career. Its success helped establish King Diamond as a solo artist and set a high standard for narrative-driven metal albums. The album’s blend of horror themes, theatricality, and musical complexity has influenced countless metal bands and artists.
The impact of “Abigail” extends beyond its initial release. Many metal musicians have cited it as influencing numerous tribute performances and covers. The album’s storytelling approach has also paved the way for other concept albums in metal, encouraging artists to explore ambitious, narrative-driven projects.
King Diamond’s ability to create a cohesive and compelling story through music is a significant achievement, demonstrating the potential of the concept album format. “Abigail” remains a testament to his creativity and vision, showcasing his unique blend of horror and metal in a way that continues to resonate with fans.
“Abigail” by King Diamond is a masterful album that combines intricate storytelling, exceptional musicianship, and a haunting atmosphere to create a landmark in the metal genre. Its gothic horror narrative, driven by King Diamond’s distinctive vocals and the band’s technical prowess, has left an indelible mark on the world of heavy metal. More than three decades after its release, “Abigail” continues to be celebrated as a classic, influencing new generations of metal artists and captivating listeners with its dark, compelling tale.
Abigail, I know you’re in control of her brain, Abigail
And I know that you’re the one that’s speaking through her, Abigail
Miriam, can you hear me?
I am alive inside your wife
Miriam’s dead, I am her head
I am alive inside your wife
Miriam’s dead, I am her head
Abigail, don’t you think I know what you’ve done, Abigail
I’ll get a priest
He will know how to get her soul back
Oh, Jonathan, this is Miriam
Our time is out
Remember the stairs, the only way
Abigail, nothing I can do but give in, Abigail
Follow me to the crypt
Abigail, you aught to be reborn where you died, Abigail
Jonathan, I agree, yes, I do
I am alive inside your wife
Miriam’s dead, I am her head
Soon I’ll be free
Songwriters: Kim Bendix Petersen.
Thanks, Jim and Di, for coming up and hosting this theme.
I came up with potential responses to this prompt. Either would have been fine. However, I spent most of the night and a good part of the wee hours working. As a multi-genre artist, work could mean anything. Well, last night, I worked on character descriptions for my fiction. It’s nothing to conjure up a person and make them do stuff. However, sometimes I don’t have a clear picture of their appearance. If I don’t have a clear idea of how I can expect the reader to have one, so I worked on my descriptions.
I fed these descriptions into AI to see what it would render. First, I had to find an image generator that provided realistic renderings. I wasn’t looking for photo quality or anything, just potential mock-ups of the characters. After hours of tweaking, I don’t care how good your chair is; your body will tell you enough is enough. So, I called it quits and went to bed.
I realized something this morning while I had coffee. I truly enjoyed myself last night, but my realization didn’t stop there. It occurred to me that creating art is my jam. It’s the one simple thing that brings me joy.
Here are a few examples of the concepts I worked on last night
None of these renderings are final, but they provide direction as I continue to develop the appearance of these characters.
Here is my response to Writer’s Workshop
The sun through the 4th floor glass felt good, It was partly on my shoulder and partly on my face. It was good to the feel the warmth. I’d been so cold lately. Nothing, I did made me warm enough. Even when AC went out and it was 90’s degrees in the house, I was okay everyone was else, but they kept their complaints out of earshot. I appreciated that.
I’m sitting thinking about the one who got away. The one who was supposed to make things better and all that. I never knew if they really happened or was it something said we believed in publicly, but thought was a crock of shit privately. “The One” worked at Aunt Peg’s candy shop in the local mall. I must have spent hundreds of dollars on soft peppermint sticks that summer.
The neighborhood paperboy loved me. He made a dollar for every trip to the candy shop. You see, I never could muster up enough courage to actually go up to the counter and ask for the candy.
“Do you even like peppermint?” Maynard, the paperboy asked
I didn’t answer. I did my best to give him an evil leer. Although, I don’t think it was working very well.
“Look, if this is all about the girl? She’s right there. Just talk to her.” Maynard took his dollar and left. That was the last day of summer and I never said a word to the girl.
I still eat soft peppermint sticks when I can find them. Those puff balls seem to have cornered the market. Some marketing genius started this whole mess.
Yep, Aunt Peg’s soft peppermint sticks were the best!
Here is my response to MLMM Photo Challenge
I surveyed my kingdom and the lush gardens before me from my perch on the railing. There’s a sign by the gate with a picture of me. It says something below it. They call me Stanley. I wonder which one came up with that name. The humans often walked these paths, marveling at the beauty of nature, but none could truly appreciate it as I did. I am the peacock, the jewel of this realm, and my feathers are the crown jewels.
I strut through the gardens daily, tail feathers trailing behind me like a royal train. The sun catches the iridescent blues and greens, making them shimmer like the waters of a hidden lagoon. Today, I decided to take a break and observe my domain from this higher vantage point.
The air was fresh with the scent of blooming flowers, and the trees whispered secrets to each other in the gentle breeze. I watched as a family strolled by, their eyes widening in awe as they noticed me. The little ones pointed and gasped, tugging at their parents’ sleeves to share their discovery. I preened, feeling a surge of pride. Even the youngest humans recognized my magnificence.
Beyond the garden’s edge, the world seemed a distant dream. Within the bounds of my green paradise, life moved peacefully. Birds flitted from tree to tree, and the occasional squirrel scurried past, always keeping a respectful distance. They knew, without a doubt, who reigned here.
The sun began to dip lower in the sky as the day wore on, casting a golden glow over the garden. I could hear the murmurs of the visitors growing softer as they made their way to the exits, reluctant to leave this haven of beauty. Soon, the garden would be mine again, a quiet sanctuary where I could rest and dream of new ways to dazzle my audience come morning.
For now, I stood still, a statue of elegance and grace, soaking in the admiration of those who lingered. I am the peacock, guardian of this garden, and in my feathers, the world sees the magic of nature.
Do you remember life before the internet?
This is sort of a tricky question. It’s tricky because a version of the internet has been around since the 60’s. However, this version of the internet, wasn’t available to the public. To be honest, only the select few even knew of it existence. Now, the version that this prompt is properly referring to became public in late 80’s. I already a working adult, so I remember the beginning of the transition well.
I also remember life prior to this transition. In the age of technical ignorance, things were quite simple, but very time consuming. We did things by hand. In the 80’s we had computers, but we did not have hard drives or cloud storage. Instead of carrying a flash drive in my pocket. I carried a library card, bus pass, and a floppy disk stuffed between the pages of my notebook with my stories in it.
In the pictures below represent what we used for research before the internet. We had ideas scribbled in our notebooks or index cards. We spent hours going through these drawers of cards sorted by subject and author. We would read passages from several books trying to narrow down the subject matter.
We would spend time in these shelves trying to find the perfect passage for your research. It usually ended up learning something that you never intended to learn. Often, it reshaped your entire direction of your research. So much time spent going into the new direction, only to scrape it because it just became too big for the parameters of your paper. Your notebooks are filled with information to be researched another time.
My Uncle taught me a coding system for notes that I still use today. I found an old notebook from high school and it had so many notations on various subjects it was crazy the stuff I researched back then. There were theories in there that were so far off, but there were a few that I wished I had the notebook during developing a few theorems. It would have saved me some time.
We went to the movie theater and watched matinee because they were cheaper. Face it everyone was poor as hell back then. Well, at least everyone I knew. We had negatives from the photos we took nearly organized in boxes. No one got hacked and private information wasn’t exposed. At least, not by a stranger on the other side of the world.
We sat at uncomfortable desks watching dudes that talked funny telling us how we supposed to think about what we just read written by a dude that his last breath three centuries prior. We had talking ponies named “Patch” telling us not to take candy from stranger. We passed notes under the desk and scribbled the names of our crushes on our notebooks.
We read actual books until our eyes burned. Bookbags filled with pens, pencils, and erasers. Plastic bags with zippers held our sanity and security. It nothing like your pen running in the middle of drafting a paper. Your hands start to ache, and your stomach is growling. Your nowhere close to being to finding what your were looking for. We expressed our thoughts within the pages of these notebooks. For aspiring writers stories begin to blossom from the words of others. It funny how that happens sometimes.
It’s almost like its a part of the writer’s job is to inspire other writers. I don’t think this thoughtful gift is intentional. I think it happens somewhere in the act of telling the story. Often, I wonder if my work has done this for another writer. Then, I decide it’s not important. It’s not something I need to worry about. It will only get in the way.
There was a certain freedom to writing before the internet. Just you, your thoughts, and your aspirations confined in the binds of the notebook of the time. You hope you have written something people want to read. You hope you wrote something that will make a difference for at least reader, even if that reader is you. Sometimes we write something that absolutely doesn’t belong in the thing we are writing. That sentence that appears out of nowhere, but man you know you have something special. I miss writing before the internet. I miss portions of life before the web.
Yes, I remember life before the internet. I recognize how much it has helped so many people, but I’m cognizant of the fact it has also destroyed so many.
Do you practice religion?
My relationship with the Master is a personal one. I believe we must coexist with one another.
Sometimes, it seems like we addicts are trying to duplicate the euphoria from the first fix. It may not last more than a moment, but you never forget how it felt and desperately try to regain that feeling. Yet, we become lost in searching for something we were only supposed to experience once. Perhaps we meant to simply capture these moments and stitch them into a quilt of sanctuary our mothers used to make. Each square represents a euphoric memory.
However, it never seems to work out that way. We waste so much time chasing the dragon we eventually feel cheated. We wind up facing ultimatums concerning the things we have unintentionally neglected. We try to rally but end up a headline below the fold or caption scrolling across the bottom screen with the volume on mute.
Is this what has become my life?
Is this the madness I’ve created?
I have faith that my brothers will hold me up until I can stand on my own. The battle against my demons is real. I sit here in the churn of madness, thinking of everything I was supposed to be—a stranger to myself, a shadow of yesterday. On my soul is a tattoo of the ghost of who I used to be. Memories of yesterday fill the present with fear, and a map to nowhere will be upon my face.
Is this what become of my life?
In the madness I created …
I pray to God to help me find my strength within.
I pray to God for the patience that day to begin.
I pray to God to help me find myself again.
Find me again
I’ve seen evil. Hell, I’ve been evil. We are so intimate that we can be found slow dancing by candlelight to the melody of the whispering darkness. Can you hear it?
In this moment…
the righteous
simply
wait …
Transgressors
plea their
fate …
Black robed, white wigged beaks
decree…
Which is which
Shattering
Souls …
At the hammer’s fall
Echo…
JUSTICE!
Peering out from under the crevasses of my splintered psyche,
Still riding a euphoric high from about That Night,
Collaborative expressions have put my hypothalamus into overdrive.
My serotonin overflowing
Yeah… swaying to that lyrical grove, high on 1000cc of that poetic shit…
Leaning back in my chair
Pulling up my sleeve,
Applying the tourniquet
Tap, tap, tap, and then rub
My vein is ready…
Opening my works, a quill and a hypodermic
I pull back the plunger slowly.
Their ink seeps in
Tap…Tap…tap…
No bubbles …
Just a quick push to fill in the gaps
A squirt, then a single drop oozes…
My mouth salivates in anticipation
So close; it won’t be long now
I feel the cold metal against my skin
A quick prick and a sharp pain,
Slowly, I push the plunger part of the way
The ink is warm as it travels through my bloodstream.
Shadows surround me
As my head spins,
A single drop of drool falls from my shuddering lips
Yes…I feel it in my leg now…
I shake from the chill.
The bathroom floor tile is so cold.
It is as if life is spilling out of me, but the floor is dry
My body feels empty and hollow, like my heart
If I am to live in loneliness
There is no need to live anymore
I push the plunger in a little further…
I am warmth from the sight of the glistening sweat that painted her body
I mimic her labored breathing
The rigidness of her bosom tells the tale
Her crossed legs and popping toes echo the sentiment.
Her body trembles though she cannot see me
But her quivering whimpers
Her flow of nectar
Confirms that I am near
She swallows hard and then gasps.
As I whisper the words she needs,
I push the plunger to the hilt…
Standing in front of a mirror
I wonder who it is before me
Baffled, for I am submerged in silence
Closing my eyes for a moment
Only to open to an image that hasn’t changed
A single tear falls from my swollen eyes
Realizing I didn’t recognize myself,
Knowing I have stripped away my identity,
The single tear is now a stream.
Through my sadness, I find the courage to breathe my name.
Mangus Khan
My health has improved, but my writing is struggling for some reason. Just give me a moment. I will come up with something. It may not be my best work, but it will probably do in a pinch. My cat keeps finding new places to nap. I admit I’m jealous because she can plop her butt anywhere and sleep. I’ve been considered a large fellow, so my plopping is limited. This meme sums up my feelings about my writing as of late.
What personal belongings do you hold most dear?
For a long time, I fought for humor, integrity, and truth. I was steadfast in my duty. Then, for a moment, I fought for glory. This was the moment of corruption.
How can this be?
After years of devotion, it only takes a moment to lose everything. Corruption festers, chipping away at who you are.
So today, with each breath, I fight to protect what is most dear …
All that remains of my soul.
What sacrifices have you made in life?
We all make sacrifices. It’s just a fact of life. Some make more than others, but we all make them. There is one sacrifice that stands out more than others: the moment I sacrificed my innocence. I didn’t know what was happening, but now I understand completely. Now, I mourn the loss of the bliss of ignorance.
I have several collections of various things that captured my interest over the years. I could go on about my book, music, or my hard drives filled with unsorted data to be used at some unspecified time. No data is bad data. However, I have a collection that may be a tad unusual. To the point of interesting in a peculiar way.
Unintentionally, I began to collect unused journals. There are of various sizes and types. This collection started by accident. One of those collections that just appear, and you don’t realize you started until you do.
If you ask me there something with each of these journals. Either it’s the binding, the paper, the size, or a combination of everything. I’ve actually found a few of these journals that could work in a pinch, but they didn’t work with my pen rotation. Now, I when hear a writer begin discussing pen and paper combinations, they have a became a pretentious dick. I’m fully aware that I fit this category. I’m okay with it. I’ve even this excuse for not writing. Yep, I’m that guy.
However, because of my oddity, I learned how to make own journals. Just when you think it can’t get any worse. I can’t write on anything lighter than 24lbs paper. Don’t let me get started on the proper pen rotation. We don’t have enough time for the rant that ensue from my dissatisfaction of inferior writing instruments of today. I find myself pondering with the following query “why?”
Enough of that, I have another collection I’d like to share this evening. I’ve been painstakingly assembling for decades. It’s my annuals of “Weak Ass Excuses for not Writing.” I assure you it is quite impressive. There are several volumes of horseshit. I thump through from time to time for giggles.
What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
I suppose when you reach a certain age, you wonder about trying to make a change or improvement—old dogs and alike. Yet, hopefully, with that age comes a bit of wisdom. I know for years I’ve banged my head against the wall for various reasons, all of them valid at the time. However, looking back, I struggle to find the logic. Over the years, I discovered the simplest strategy.
I need to accept that I cannot control everything. Some life events have nothing to do with me or my actions. Yes, I realize I sound a bit like a narcissist; however, this is not my intent. I’m trying to have an honest moment with myself. Can you at least wait until I finish to call horseshit? Seriously, I’m doing my level best to make a change.
I guess we see how it goes …
Have you ever broken a bone?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
There are a few days when phantom pain causes me to wince. I know it’s from my earlier escapades. I never just broke a bone, I shattered them. Maybe, I should have sat down and lived a normal life? Fuck that
Do you vote in political elections?
As child, I watched the elders of my community banned together and brave the elements for their chance to be heard. I remember the rumbling of the younger generations about elections being rigged and didn’t matter if they voted or not. The elders wouldn’t hear this foolishness. We have sacrificed so much for this right. How dare you belittle our efforts. This stance changed the minds of some, but others continued in protest. However, they did so silently, because no one wanted to incur the wrath of the elders. I listened to stories of separate bathrooms and drinking fountains. They were hard to believe because it was so different from the world I knew. Unfortunately, the injustice remained vigilant. The methods changed, but the theme remained the same. So, I couldn’t wait to do my part. For years, I waited for my chance to vote. I participated in the voting process in all the school elections. I felt it was civic duty to make a choice. Although I had pledged my devotion to the process, I didn’t really understand why the elders were so committed. So, I looked into it at my grandmother’s request. She never wanted us to do something just because everyone else did it. One of her frequent sayings “If someone jumped off a bridge, you gonna jump too?” “You have the right to do whatever you want, but understand what hell you’re doing. Don’t be a dumbass.” As my research continued, I quickly discovered that the level of injustice ran deeper than I initially thought. Now, I vote at most opportunities. I know this wouldn’t be good enough for the elders, but their legacy is intact. I provided a brief overview of the injustice concerning the right to vote.
The right to vote is often hailed as one of the most fundamental aspects of a democratic society. It is the mechanism through which citizens exercise their sovereignty, choose leaders, and shape the laws that govern them. This right, however, has not always been universally accessible. Its evolution has been marked by struggle, activism, and significant legal reforms. Today, as we strive for more inclusive and fair electoral systems, it is crucial to reflect on the history, importance, and contemporary challenges associated with the right to vote.
The journey toward universal suffrage has been long and arduous. In the early days of democracy, voting rights were typically restricted to a privileged few. In ancient Athens, often cited as the cradle of democracy, only male citizens with property could vote. Women, slaves, and non-property owners were excluded. Similarly, in the early years of the United States, voting was predominantly a right reserved for white, land-owning men.
The first significant wave of expansion in voting rights came in the 19th century with the abolition of property requirements. This change was driven by a growing belief in the principle that all men, regardless of wealth, should have a say in governance. The 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1870, marked another crucial milestone by prohibiting denying the right to vote based on race, color, or previous condition of servitude. Despite this amendment, African Americans, particularly in the Southern states, faced discriminatory practices like literacy tests, poll taxes, and violent intimidation aimed at disenfranchising them.
Women’s suffrage was another significant battle in the history of voting rights. The movement gained momentum in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, culminating in the ratification of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution in 1920, which granted women the right to vote. This victory was a pivotal moment in the fight for gender equality and marked the beginning of a broader struggle for women’s rights.
In the mid-20th century, the civil rights movement brought renewed focus to the disenfranchisement of African Americans. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were landmark pieces of legislation that sought to eliminate racial discrimination in voting. These laws prohibited practices like literacy tests and provided federal oversight of voter registration in areas with a history of discriminatory practices.
Voting is more than just a right; it is a powerful tool for enacting change and holding governments accountable. Through the ballot, citizens can influence policy decisions on issues ranging from healthcare and education to climate change and social justice. It is a means of expressing consent and dissent, giving voice to diverse perspectives within a society.
Moreover, voting is a critical component of political legitimacy. Governments derive their authority from the consent of the governed, and regular, free, and fair elections are the primary mechanism through which this consent is gauged. When citizens participate in elections, they validate the democratic process and reinforce the principle that political power is derived from the will of the people.
Voting also plays a vital role in promoting social cohesion and civic engagement. It encourages individuals to become informed about political issues, candidates, and policies. This engagement fosters a more educated and active citizenry, which is essential for the health and vibrancy of a democracy.
Despite the progress made over the centuries, the right to vote faces numerous challenges in the contemporary era. Voter suppression, electoral fraud, gerrymandering, and disenfranchisement of marginalized groups are issues that continue to undermine the integrity of democratic systems.
To safeguard and strengthen the right to vote, several measures can be implemented:
The right to vote is a cornerstone of democracy, embodying the principles of equality, representation, and political participation. While significant progress has been made in expanding and protecting this right, ongoing challenges necessitate continued vigilance and action. By promoting voter education, enacting electoral reforms, and fostering civic engagement, we can ensure that the right to vote remains a powerful and accessible tool for all citizens. As we navigate the complexities of contemporary democracy, the collective effort to uphold and strengthen this fundamental right will be crucial in shaping a just and equitable society.
One minute, you sleep too long, and the next you can’t sleep at all. I suppose somehow, some way we search for the balance. You haven’t seen it so long you forget it east. I suppose it’s the way things do it. Or else it is just something else to fail at. Just another thing to let you down.
List your top 5 favorite fruits.
When I was a child, candy was truly a treat. Holidays like Easter, Halloween, and Christmas were awesome because we were allowed to eat candy for days. However, the remainder of the time, fruit served as our treat or snack. After wonderful years of sampling different types of fruit, I came up with the following list of favorites.
I actually have a ten, but the response asked for just five. Although I love my candy and went through a period as an adult where I kept a jar full, now I prefer fruit in a way that is better because I choose it.
In the dimly lit room, an ancient cabinet stood solemnly against the wall. Its wood, dark and glossy, whispered tales of forgotten eras. As the key turned in its lock, a soft sigh escaped, revealing secrets nestled within its heart.
Do you ever see wild animals?
Sometimes, it feels like I’m Marlon Perkins from that show Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. It all started when I was invaded by two raccoons, Louie and Smiley. I was visiting my folks, and when I returned, Louie was sitting in my office chair reading the Douay-Rheims version of the bible. Smiley came out of the kitchen with a loaf of bread and a pack of cheese. He didn’t notice me at first.
“Louie! I’ve found the mother lode.” Smiley exclaimed, then went chewing on a slice of bread.
“Shut up, Smiley.” Louie warned, then he looked up and saw me standing there.
“Louie! He’s back! He’s back!”
Louie dropped the bible, and they scurried off past and out the door. I sat at my desk and examined my bible. I was expecting tiny paw prints on the pages, but surprisingly they were clean. However, throughout my kitchen there were paw prints everywhere. I went out to the porch, but there was no sign of the raccoons.
Frequently, I see rabbits, raccoons, and opossums on my property, but they never stay and visit. They see me and run off. I wonder if I’m as nice as I think I am.
Have you ever been camping?
I’ve spent a great deal of time in the woods, sleeping under the stars and even being chased by a family of wild boars, so the idea of going back to the woods for “fun” didn’t really appeal to me. However, I’m aware of oodles of fun had at the campfire, smores, and the guy serenading some girl while playing a single chord on his guitar. I’m so sorry that I missed that; not really!
We mustn’t get lost in its despair, we mustn’t be swallowed before the pain, and we must be careful not to be cut by beauty’s dual edge. But is that even possible? How can we embrace beauty without becoming its victim, without becoming its prey?
I’m beginning to get used to it. It’s almost like it’s second nature or something. Each day is not much different than the last; each day we are closer to being engulfed by the evil charms of its subtle beauty; bright pale blue lore is deceiving; it masks the wickedness that lurks neath its smiles: we are bitten by its breath
What topics do you like to discuss?
I find this a bit difficult since I go days without uttering a single word. There’s something about the serenity of silence that soothes me, and most times, I’m not willing to compromise my serenity for the sake of prattle. I have found that my fondness for silence makes people around me unnerved. Nervous people make me irksome. I don’t do irksome. However, I do enjoy a meaningful and civil conversation on the following topics.
Writing – I love to talk about writing. It’s interesting to hear the different approaches my contemporaries take to express their thoughts. If I lucky, they may be a novice writer among the group. To hear the frustration of trying to find the end of their tale. Not to mention, the excitement of finishing a draft of something they are proud of.
Music—I’d say music was my first love. Lyrics served as a spell that enthralled me in this spooky art of writing. The need to convey an emotion, discuss a topic, or simply groove you. I can’t get enough of it. I especially enjoy the different music challenges on WordPress. It’s like I get to geek out and not be judged. Music is a fusion of so many aspects of creativity; it’s breathtaking.
Nonsense – There is something to be said about bullshitting with your buddies. I can’t express the number of times chopping it up has been cathartic.
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – RDP WING
Each word, each verse, or each sentence we write. Is an attempt to learn to fly.
Every time I write a story, it’s like doodling in my mind.
Which aspects do you think makes a person unique?
In the discussion of what makes a person unique, it’s a short one. However -, the forced subtopics or categories lengthen the discussion and become a slow grind. The answer is simple. An individual’s personality sets them apart from everyone else. I concede there are aspects about individuals we need to include, but really it isn’t necessary.
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – MOONWASHED MUSING’S – STAR-FLECKED
He was enchanted by a woman whose eyes mirrored the night sky—dotted with constellations and shimmering with the light of distant stars. The kind of eyes depicted in storybooks and legend. Each glance into her eyes he fell deeper into their boundless and mesmerizing sea. He was powerless and that was okay. The specks of light slow danced with hope and mystique, a testament to the mysteries and beauties of fantasy. Her gaze was the key to stories untold, worlds unexplored, and the promise of adventure.
“Harold, are you going stand there gawking, my god boy! Close your mouth before you let flies in!”
Harold face redden, “Yes Nanna.”
“Give her the coupons.” Nanna continued. Harold’s embarrassment deepened. He makes eye contact again and her face reddened as well. She is smiling shyly.
“HI! I’m Lucy”
What was the last thing you did for play or fun?
A couple of months back a few co workers had this hair brain scheme to go a local watering hole to I don’t know, hang out? or some just as an annoying social construct. So, under protest, I showed up. To my dismay, I enjoyed myself.
I think it was the willingness of the participants to engage in karaoke. I sat and listened to beloved songs from my childhood butchered unapologetically. It was as if they walked into my memories and randomly snatched out a cut.
It reminds me of public version of singing the shower. You sing your beloved song and don’t give damn. This is the fun part. After returning home, I sat laughing and jotted down a few tracks that fall into the parameters. Here’s my short list
I find most of these songs you only really know the chorus. You mumble your way through the verses and when the chorus you let it rip. If with friends this is the part where eyes closed, drinks hoisted, and heads ended up on shoulders while that songs sung off key beget another cherished memory
How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?
In many ways I viewed the quarantine as a god send. Let me be clear, I wished anything harmful on anyone, but I was dealing with emotionally issues and wanted to be alone. So I was. I encrypted everything and basically dropped on the face of the earth smack in the middle of town. Most of my provisions were stocked, except for fresh vegetables. I brought them fresh every couple of days, then I had to switch to frozen vegetables.
AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!
Due to this development, I was absolutely convinced the world was ending. No, I hadn’t completely flipped my lid. I spent several decades eating my meals out of pouches and cans, so idea of returning back to lifestyle was horrendous.
How have I adjusted ?
I’ve haven’t really, but I’ve made a few concessions in the following areas.
– I no longer expect 2 – Day shipping from Amazon
– My butcher is my homey and I get the best cuts.
– I started in herb and vegetable garden.
My soils sucks and nothing grows well enough to eat. Back to frozen
AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Mabel McGee lived in the quiet town of Willow Creek in a quaint cottage that seemed to hold more memories than objects. To the townsfolk, she was known as the elderly woman with a penchant for mixing up dates and events, often speaking of historical happenings as if she’d lived through them herself. Some whispered about dementia, others about a life too lonely. But little did they know, Mabel’s supposed confusion was not a symptom of her age but rather a consequence of her extraordinary past as a retired time traveler.
Mabel’s journey began in 2045 in a world where time travel was possible and regulated by a strict code. She was one of the elite, a ChronoNavigator tasked with maintaining the integrity of the timeline. Her missions had taken her from the bustling streets of ancient Rome to the futuristic landscapes of the 22nd century, each adventure embedding itself into the fabric of her being.
As the years passed, the toll of her travels grew heavier. The lines between times began to blur, not just in her mind but in her heart. Mabel realized that she yearned for something the vast expanse of time could not give her—a place to call home. And so, she chose to retire in the one era that had always felt like a balm to her soul—the early 21st century.
The townsfolk of Willow Creek knew none of this. To them, Mabel was the eccentric old woman who lived alone, her house filled with strange artifacts and her conversation sprinkled with anachronisms. Children dared each other to peek through her windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of her rumored collection of “antiques” that seemed too out of place, even for a collector. They didn’t realize that each piece in Mabel’s home was a memento from her travels—a Roman coin, a futuristic gadget that no longer worked in this timeline, a painting from an artist who wouldn’t be born for centuries. And the stories she told, dismissed as confused ramblings, were indeed true accounts of historical events she had witnessed firsthand.
One day, a new family moved into Willow Creek, and with them came young Ellie, a curious and bright girl with an insatiable appetite for stories. Unlike the others, Ellie found herself enchanted by Mabel’s tales. She listened, wide-eyed, as Mabel spoke of walking with dinosaurs, witnessing the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and even attending a speech by a future president yet to be elected.
Over time, the seasoned time traveler and the young girl formed a unique friendship. Mabel saw in Ellie a kindred spirit who understood the value of time not by its weight but by its wonders. For Ellie, Mabel was the gateway to a world far beyond the confines of Willow Creek—a world where anything was possible. As their bond deepened, Mabel decided to change Ellie’s life forever. She decided to share her greatest secret, the time device that had been dormant for years. Together, they embarked on a journey that spanned centuries, a final adventure for Mabel and the beginning of a lifetime of wonders for Ellie
In the end, Mabel McGee’s legacy in Willow Creek was not that of a confused old woman but of a mentor who opened the door to the universe for a young girl. As for the townsfolk, they would never look at their world the same way again, always wondering if the stranger passing through was just a visitor or a traveler from another time, inspired by the tales of Mabel McGee, the retired ChronoNavigator who found her home not in time, but in the hearts of those she touched.
In the heart of an attic, amidst a treasure trove of forgotten gadgets, an argument of epochal proportions was unfolding. Oliver, an old, venerable camera with a penchant for nostalgia, found himself at odds with Dexter, a high-tech digital camera with more settings than a spaceship.
“Back in my day, we captured the essence of life, one click at a time,” Oliver boasted, his lens gleaming under the dim attic light.
“Pfft, the essence of life? I can capture, edit, and share a photo before you even figure out your aperture,” Dexter retorted, his LED screen flashing in disdain.
The debate might have ended there if a cheeky squirrel had not chosen that moment to dart across the attic floor, pausing only to strike a pose.
A light bulb flickered to life above Oliver’s viewfinder. “I propose a challenge! Let’s see who can take the best photo of that squirrel,” he declared, adjusting his focus.
Dexter beeped in amusement. “You’re on, grandpa. Prepare to be pixelated.”
Oliver took his time, calculating the light, adjusting his focus, and waiting… waiting for the moment when the squirrel, enticed by a nut left on the windowsill, struck a majestic pose. Click. The sound resonated through the attic, capturing a moment in time.
Meanwhile, Dexter, with the efficiency of a modern marvel, snapped approximately 47 photos in burst mode, applied a “Squirrel-Enhance” filter, and even photoshopped a tiny superhero cape onto the squirrel in one of the shots. “Done. And I’ve already shared it on SquirrelGram,” Dexter announced triumphantly.
They turned to the attic’s old computer to judge their work. Oliver’s photo was a masterpiece of timing and light, showcasing the squirrel in a moment of serene beauty. The soft lighting gave it an almost ethereal quality.
Dexter’s photos were sharp, vivid, and varied, with the superhero squirrel garnering a particular chuckle. “Look at that! It’s going viral among the attic spiders,” Dexter bragged.
Just then, the squirrel, having completed its snack, scampered over to see what all the fuss was about. It peered at the screen, then at the two competitors. With a decisive nod, it grabbed a forgotten paintbrush with its tiny paws. It dashed off a squirrelly masterpiece on a piece of scrap paper: Oliver and Dexter, lenses crossed in friendship, capturing the squirrel in a heroic pose.
The two cameras, old and new, realized that the best photos come from seeing the world through each other’s lenses. They laughed, a sound of mechanical clicks and digital beeps, united in their newfound friendship and respect for each other’s techniques.
As the sun set, casting a golden hue over the attic, Oliver and Dexter understood that photography isn’t just about the camera—it’s about the vision, the moment, and sometimes, a squirrel with a flair for the dramatic.
And so, amidst the dust and memories, two cameras from different generations found common ground, proving once and for all that when it comes to capturing life’s beautiful moments, the best approach is a shared one. As for the squirrel, it became an honorary member of their photographic adventures, always ready for its next close-up—cape and all.
What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?
As a kid, I was obsessed with moving things with my mind. Yeah, I was the kid who laid the pencil on his desk, staring at it, trying to make it move. Of course, it never happened. Then, I got the idea that perhaps my powers would emerge later. Later, I researched superpowers and discovered that the power I wanted was telekinesis and extrasensory perception.
But before I did my research, I watched every movie that featured people with these powers. Everything I saw focused on the darkness of the abilities. Films like The Fury (1978) made the idea of having these powers spooky. Check this out:
We also had Sci-Fi horror flicks like Scanners (1981). Here is a scene from that movie.
Who can forget the psycho-thriller Patrick (1978)? Take a look
After watching movies like these, who wants telekinesis? Then, one day, I had a discussion with fellow film buffs about the pros and cons of telekinesis. We were teenagers, and this discussion was the first of what we considered a”deep” discussion. We were on the verge of deciding telekinesis wasn’t an ability we wanted. Then, one of the girlfriends announced that we were idiots. She couldn’t believe we hadn’t considered “The Force” in our examples of telekinesis. Her comment stopped us all in our tracks. We had never considered the Force as telekinesis. She said, “Our lack of faith was disturbing.”
I don’t know why we never considered The Force. Perhaps it seems to be something much more powerful than everyday telekinesis. I can’t really explain what I felt then, but “the Force” was so much more to me. Perhaps I felt it was a way of life, perhaps an ideal. My Midi-chlorians count was never enough for consideration for being a Jedi or Sithlord. I’ve always admired the ideal.
I’ve been working on music posts all weekend and writing a bit of fiction. So, when I read today’s prompt, this song came to mind as I popped some Tylenol for my aching bones. Then, ask this question.
Then, of course, this song pops into my head.
Fingers popping and belting the lyrics into a seldom used hairbrush. I stop and catch my breath. I realized this track from 1969, and I knew all the words. Scratching the back of my head, I pause and ask what’s my age again?
You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, car, or bike?
I’ve more time behind the wheel than any other mode of transportation. Driving has always relaxed me. I prefer driving alone to think in peace, but I’m not opposed to traveling with someone else. I’ve developed some of my best storylines driving. There’s nothing like working out a difficult scene while gliding across the asphalt sea. The only problem is that I never seem to have a device to capture my thoughts as they come. Yes, yes, I’ve tried the microcassette recorder thing, but I never seem to remember to bring spare tapes. When the digital ones hit the market, the problem is solved, right? Nope, I forget to download to my computer, and when I do, I forget where the hell I put them.
The essentials for a proper road trip: This list varies based on your individual needs, but here are a few suggestions to help you consider what you might need.
Whether you listen to music, podcasts, audiobooks, or talk radio, some items are saved locally on your device for times when you don’t have cell coverage.
If not, you may be forced to listen to stuff like this:
Some of you may enjoy these tracks, so you look at me strangely. However, on one of my road trips, before streaming services were a thing, I found myself listening to a Juice Newton marathon. Now, I ask you, how is this even a thing? It was that day. Some DJ, apparently a huge Juice Newton fan, played all her music. To make matters worse, he had a booming radio station that blasted for miles.
However, you get lucky and get some fun songs like these:
By answering this post when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I’m subject to say anything. I couldn’t resist!
Despite the title, the rain is my favorite type of weather. I never understood why people ran from the rain but spent hours in the shower over a lifetime. They swim laps, surf, and waterski, yet the first raindrops they beat feet for shelter. Trust me, I’m not making fun of anyone. I was just like everyone else until I joined the military.
If it ain’t raining, ain’t, training became our mantra after just a few weeks in service. At my first duty station in Korea, I survived the monsoon season. Trust me, you will stop worrying about the rain after surviving monsoon season. We are soaked to the epidermis, which was wrinkled by the time you were able to put on dry clothes. I can’t remember the last time I ran from the rain.
At any rate, I love the rain. Its something about it I never could put my finger on. Here are some of my favorite songs with rain in the title. I know, it’s Eddie Rabbit’s fault.
Here is my response to RDP’s Daily Prompt – Lithe
In the heart of a bustling city park, where children’s laughter mingled with the melodious chirping of birds, sat a man named Julian. He was a solitary figure amidst the vibrant chaos, a contemplative soul who found peace in the art of people-watching. Julian was particularly drawn to the nuances of human interaction, the subtle play of expressions, and the eloquence of body language.
On this sun-drenched afternoon, his attention was captured by a woman practicing yoga on the lush, green grass. She embodied grace, her movements fluid and effortless, a visual symphony that mesmerized Julian. He noted how the word “lithe” seemed to be crafted for her, the very definition of her elegance and strength. She moved with an almost ethereal poise, her limbs stretching and coiling with a feline agility that left Julian in awe.
For days, Julian returned to the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lithe woman. She became a muse to him, a living embodiment of art and beauty he dared only admire from afar. Her presence stirred something within him, a longing to reach out and connect, to transcend the boundaries of his solitary existence.
Finally, mustering every ounce of courage, Julian decided it was time to step out of the shadows of his observation and into the light of interaction. He approached her on a day painted with the perfect azure of the sky. His heart thundered in his chest, a tumultuous symphony of nerves and excitement.
“Hello,” he said, his voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the park’s life.
She turned toward him, her expression mildly surprised. Her eyes reflected the tranquility of the world she embraced. “Hello,” she replied, her voice as soft and melodious as he had imagined.
Julian stumbled through his introduction, words tangled with admiration and awe. He spoke of his observations, his fascination with how she moved, how she seemed to personify the word “lithe.” He expected bemusement, perhaps even annoyance. Instead, she smiled, a warm, genuine curvature of her lips that reached her eyes and ignited a spark of connection.
Her name was Elara, and she listened earnestly attentively, making Julian’s words flow more freely. They talked beneath the canopy of verdant leaves, their conversation meandering through the trivial to the profound, just as the park’s myriad pathways did.
In time, their meetings became a cherished ritual, two once-strangers finding solace and joy in shared moments. Julian, who had once been content to observe life from a distance, actively participated in its menagerie, woven with threads of companionship, understanding, and the unexpected beauty of a chance encounter.
And so, in a park where the world seemed to converge, Julian discovered the courage to connect, inspired by a woman who danced with the wind, her lithe form a reminder of life’s boundless grace.
What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?
I suppose ever since childhood, I’ve been a fan of a good Western. The Magnificent Seven was my introduction to the world of justice. I suppose many others my age, I’ve been disappointed with the state of Western movies as of late. However, I’m glad to admit Hollywood must have heard me grumbling and put some decent Westerns. One of those such Westerns is the limited Netflix series entitled Godless.
“Godless” is a gripping Western drama series that debuted on Netflix in 2017. Set in the 1880s, it explores the story of La Belle, a small New Mexico town mysteriously inhabited almost entirely by women after a mining accident claims the lives of nearly all the town’s men. The series intensifies when a menacing outlaw, Frank Griffin, played by Jeff Daniels, and his gang of bandits set their sights on La Belle, seeking revenge on Roy Goode, a former protégé who betrayed him. The show weaves themes of redemption, betrayal, and survival against a backdrop of stunning landscapes and a town fighting to assert its independence. “Godless” offers a unique take on the Western genre, focusing on strong female characters, moral ambiguity, and complex human relationships. It received critical acclaim for its storytelling, performances, and visual style.
Cast of Characters:
During most of Tori Amos’ rise to stardom, my face was buried in the used record stacks, looking for classic jazz and blues. Though I collected many treasures, it wreaked havoc on my sinuses. I’m not sure if I ever fully recovered. Despite my obsession, I remember some of the women ranting about the excellent music of Tori Amos. I’m telling you, if it wasn’t Davis, Monk, Parker, Wolf, or Waters, I wasn’t trying to hear it.
As it turned out, I had three female soldiers assigned to my section. Although I had worked with female soldiers before in various limited capacities, I had never had any assigned to my section. Although they were from different backgrounds and musical tastes, they were all fans of Tori Amos. Finally, they talked me into listening. Here’s the particulars. Let’s get started:
Tori Amos, an American singer-songwriter and pianist, has captivated audiences worldwide with her distinctive voice and profound lyrical content. Known for her emotionally intense songs that blend classical music influences with alternative rock, Amos has carved a unique niche in the music industry. This blog post delves into her life, music, activism, and enduring legacy, offering a comprehensive look at one of the most influential artists of her generation.
Born Myra Ellen Amos on August 22, 1963, in North Carolina, Tori Amos demonstrated prodigious musical talent from a young age. Encouraged by her Methodist minister father and her mother of Eastern Cherokee descent, Amos began playing the piano at two and composing by age five. Her early exposure to gospel music and classical compositions profoundly influenced her musical style.
Amos’ prodigious talent earned her a scholarship to the prestigious Peabody Institute at Johns Hopkins University when she was five. However, her inclination towards rock and popular music led to her dismissal at 11. Undeterred, she played in bars and clubs in the Washington D.C. area during her teenage years, honing her skills and developing her distinctive style.
Her first professional music endeavor was as the lead singer of the 1980s synth-pop band Y Kant Tori Read, which was not a commercial success. This setback paved the way for Amos to establish her solo career, leading to her breakthrough debut solo album, “Little Earthquakes,” in 1992.
“Little Earthquakes” marked a significant turning point in Amos’ career. The album’s raw, emotional intensity and unconventional songwriting resonated with listeners and critics, establishing her as a unique voice in the music industry. With hit singles like “Silent All These Years” and “Crucify,” Amos gained a devoted following and critical acclaim.
Her subsequent albums, including “Under the Pink” (1994) and “Boys for Pele” (1996), continued to explore complex emotional and social themes while showcasing her virtuosic piano skills and innovative arrangements. Amos’ ability to blend classical music elements with contemporary styles helped her maintain a distinctive identity in the evolving music scene of the 1990s.
Amos has received numerous accolades throughout her career, including multiple Grammy Award nominations. Her fearless approach to addressing personal and societal issues through her music has cemented her status as an influential figure in the industry.
Tori Amos’ music defies easy categorization, blending classical, rock, electronica, and folk elements. Her classically trained piano skills are at the forefront of her compositions, often complemented by intricate arrangements and a wide range of instrumentation. Her lyrics are known for their depth, exploring themes such as religion, sexuality, feminism, and personal trauma.
Amos draws inspiration from various sources, including mythology, literature, and personal experiences. Her storytelling ability is evident in her songwriting, where she creates vivid, emotionally charged narratives. Her voice, with its distinctive timbre and dynamic range, adds an additional layer of expressiveness to her music.
Her musical influences are as eclectic as her style, ranging from classical composers like Debussy and Rachmaninoff to rock and folk artists like Led Zeppelin and Joni Mitchell. This blend of influences has helped Amos create a sound that is uniquely her own, resonating with fans across different genres and generations.
Throughout her career, Tori Amos has released a multitude of albums that have garnered critical and commercial success. “Little Earthquakes” and “Under the Pink” are often cited as her most impactful works, featuring songs that address complex emotions and personal struggles. “Boys for Pele” showcased her experimental side, incorporating harpsichord and brass instruments into her music.
Other significant albums include “From the Choirgirl Hotel” (1998) and “Scarlet’s Walk” (2002), each demonstrating Amos’ evolution as an artist and storyteller. Her ability to adapt and explore different musical landscapes while maintaining her core artistic identity is a testament to her talent and versatility.
Beyond her music, Tori Amos is a passionate advocate for various causes, including women’s rights, sexual assault awareness, and LGBTQ+ rights. She co-founded the RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), which has become the largest anti-sexual violence organization in the United States.
Amos’ activism is reflected in her music, where she often tackles challenging and taboo subjects, offering support and solidarity to those who have experienced trauma. Her dedication to these causes has inspired her fans and fellow artists, amplifying her impact beyond the music industry.
Tori Amos’ influence extends far beyond her discography. As a pioneering female artist in the alternative rock and singer-songwriter genres, she has inspired countless musicians with her authenticity, musical innovation, and lyrical depth. Her contributions to music and activism have earned her a dedicated fanbase and a lasting legacy as an influential and respected figure in the industry.
Butterfly Lyrics :
[Verse 1]
Stinky soul, get a little lost in my own
Hey General, need a little love in that hole of yours
So one way’s now and Saturday’s now
And our kittens all wrapped in cement
From cradle to gumdrops got me running girl as fast as I can
[Chorus]
And is it right, Butterfly
They like you better framed and dried?
[Verse 2]
Daddy, dear, if I can kill one man why not two?
Well, nurses smile when you’ve got iron veins
You can’t stain their pretty shoes
And pompoms and cherry blondes
And the kittens still wrapped in cement
From God’s saviors to gumdrops got me running girl as fast as I can
[Chorus]
And is it right, Butterfly
They like you better framed and dried?
[Outro]
Got a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden, yes
Got a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden, yes
You’ll be a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden
In the tapestry of human endeavor, threads shimmer with unyielding tenacity woven from the fiber of women with grit. These women, from varied walks of life and corners of the earth, share a common trait—a relentless fortitude that propels them through adversity, enabling them to emerge not only unscathed but stronger and more resolute.
Consider the woman who rises before dawn, her day stretching ahead like an uncharted expanse, demanding her sweat, intellect, and care. Yet, she meets each challenge undaunted, fueled by an inner fire that refuses to be extinguished. She could be the single mother who juggles multiple jobs to provide for her children, ensuring they receive the opportunities she never had. Or the scientist in a lab, her eyes alight with the spark of discovery, tirelessly pushing against the frontiers of knowledge despite the voices questioning her place in such a world.
Reflect on the women in history who stood firm against the gales of their times, refusing to bend. They are the suffragettes who endured mockery and imprisonment, their eyes fixed on the horizon of equality. They are the trailblazers in arts, sciences, politics, and activism who dismantled barriers and defied conventions to etch their indelible marks on the annals of time.
Women with grit embody resilience, a quality that resonates through their every action, a silent strength that speaks louder than words. They navigate life’s storms with a steely grace, their resolve a beacon for others to follow. In their perseverance, they weave a legacy of inspiration, a call to each of us to harness our own potential, face our battles with courage, and emerge not just enduring but triumphant.
In celebrating these women, we recognize the grit within ourselves, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit embodied in the resilience and determination of women across ages and the world.
My mother was such a woman. She had grit, but she referred to it as gumption. I’ve always liked that word. Despite the challenges of raising me on her own, she refused to surrender the chaos surrounding us, no matter how tempting it had been. She remained steady in all that we faced. A lesson I tried to demonstrate to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’m honored to be a steward of her legacy. No different than the others who have courageous women in their lives.
Here is my response to RDP’s Trifling
A quaint village nestled between rolling hills and whispering woods lived a trifling spirit named Elara. Mischievous and light-hearted, she danced through the villagers’ lives like a playful breeze, her presence barely more substantial than a fleeting shadow. With a penchant for harmless pranks, Elara often left a trail of bewildered smiles and gentle laughter in her wake. She’d whisper riddles in the wind, tie shoelaces together unseen, and sometimes, in a whimsical mood, cause the flowers to bloom out of season, painting the world in unexpected splendor.
Yet, despite her whimsy, Elara held a deeper purpose. Her antics served as gentle reminders not to take life too seriously and to find joy in the small, unexpected moments. In her own trivial way, Elara wove a thread of light-heartedness into the fabric of the village, teaching that sometimes, the heart needs the relief of laughter and the soul the lightness of just being.
Here is my response to RDP’s prompt: Shattered
In the pale moonlight, the world seemed ethereal, yet a profound silence pervaded the air, perforated by the echo of distant footsteps. A mosaic of shattered hopes now lay among the ruins of a forgotten city where dreams once flourished. The remnants of crumbled walls whispered tales of yore, each fractured stone a bearer of untold stories. Underneath the celestial gaze, shadows danced across the fragmented relics, casting an intricate ballet of light and darkness. Here, amidst the vestiges of the past, resilience bloomed anew, forging beauty from despair, a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual rebirth amidst ruin.
A boy named Timmy Sinclair lived in a bustling city named Licksville, known far and wide for his extraordinarily large tongue. Timmy was no ordinary boy, and his tongue was no ordinary tongue. It was the size of a baguette, supple like a gymnast’s and versatile like an artist’s palette.
From an early age, Timmy realized that his large tongue was not a curse but a blessing. He discovered he could use his tongue for tasks that others could not. He could taste the subtlest of flavors in food, making him the best judge in town for cooking competitions. He could also use his large tongue to help clean out jars and reach places his hands could not.
In school, Timmy was the star of the science fair. He used his tongue to demonstrate how taste buds worked, making science fun and exciting. His classmates admired him, and his teachers praised him for his creativity. Unfortunately, not everyone saw Timmy’s tongue that way.
Summer ended, and school began. Timmy was excited. He couldn’t wait for his next adventures. When he arrived at homeroom on the first day, there were two new students: one girl and one boy. Timmy took a seat and waited. He wanted to know everything about the girl. She had long raven hair, caramel-colored skin, and the most enchanting eyes he had ever seen.
Ms. Rowster came into the room, and they settled down for attendance. Timmy barely could contain himself as he anxiously waited to hear the name of this beautiful girl. When Ms. Rowster got to her name, she asked her to stand up and tell the class a little about herself. She did.
“Hello. My name is Simin Karimi, and I’m from Detriot,” Simin said, then sat down.
Timmy felt she had the most beautiful voice to accompany the rest of her beauty.
Ms. Rowster did the same with the new boy as well. He stood and cleared his throat, “I’m Brad Zigler from Ohio. I know everyone has heard of Zigler cheese, right? Brad asked. A few nodded in agreement while the others sat in quiet bewilderment.
They were all sixteen, but Brad stood over 6 feet and had a large nose, freckles, and a fiery beard. Due to his size and attitude, he had already started gaining friends. Timmy knew he would be one of the most popular kids in school before long.
At lunch, Timmy sat at his usual table, watching Simin’s every move, hoping she would sit at his table. Marcy Busch slapped Timmy on the shoulder.
“Who’s that?” Marcy asked.
“S S S imin,” Timmy shuttered. He was a little tongue-tied, as they say. He felt strange because he never shuttered a day in his life. Marcy looked puzzled at Timmy, then Simin. Marcy motioned for Simin to sit with them. Timmy shifted uncomfortably but managed a smile. Marcy introduced herself.
Marcy and Simin chatted away while eating, picking at their food, if you can call it eating. They were well on their way to being fast friends. Timmy sat quietly, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times. Timmy noticed Simin kept glancing and smiling at him. This made Timmy nervous. Here is the most beautiful girl, and he’s suddenly tongue-tied.
“Stop being rude!” Marcy said as she nudged on the shoulder. Timmy tried to say something, but his tongue got in the way. It felt like it filled his entire mouth. Timmy had never experienced this before. Marcy’s comment didn’t help matters.
“So, you see a pretty girl, huh?” Marcy asked.
“You’ve been talking my ear off since first grade. Geez, thanks,” she smiled. Her cobalt blue eyes sparkled when she smiled, and her smile always seemed to do the trick when Timmy got nervous. Marcy made him feel safe.
“Hey, Simin,” Timmy finally managed. Simin smiled.
“Oh my god! So you’re the freak people have been whispering about!” a voice exclaimed. They looked up, and it was Brad Zigler with a horrified expression.
“What are you? Some sort of lizard?” he exclaimed.
Timmy blushed, and his eyes filled with tears. Before he knew it, Marcy had sprung from the table, kneeing Brad, and delivered a well-practiced right cross—the signature move she picked up when she developed breasts at 12. Marcy explained that once all the women in her family had a nice set of girls, her mother, and grandmother taught her the move in case the boys got handsy. Nanna said boys “always get handsy.”
Marcy stood Brad silently, her brunette hair tied in a ponytail. Brad groaned in pain as he clutched his private area. Marcy stepped toward him, and Brad scooted away with his held up in surrender. Marcy turned to look at Timmy. Her pale alabaster skin was rose-colored. Her eyes were like fire. Yet, they softened when Timmy looked up at her. She stood 5 feet even.
“Bullies give me the sweet ass!” she exclaimed as she retook her seat. Marcy didn’t make eye contact with anyone, then whispered, “Sorry.” Simin squeezed her hand. “Marcy, you’re wicked fast. Next time, can you save me some?” Simin asked jokingly. They all chuckled as they left the lunchroom.
Author’s Note:
Today, I felt good enough to write a little fiction. I hope you don’t mind. So, I combined a couple of hosted challenges I felt worked for the story. The third challenge was one I had for myself, and it was two-fold. Primarily, I’ve been writing light non-fiction for the last few weeks. I needed to know if my fiction tools still worked in something light. I also challenged myself to see if my depictions of the characters in this could used with AI image generation. The answer to the latter is yes. Overall, I’m pleased with the image outcome. As for the former, it felt good writing, but I will leave it up to you guys. Should I continue this corky tale? I wrote more, in case you are wondering. Or hit delete and move on to another project?
Prompts used for this story:
SocS: Hosted by Linda Hill – Words starting with “signa”
Ragtag Daily Prompts: Sunday (safe); Thursday (Lizard)
The challenge words are hyperlinked to their origins. I hope you guys enjoy this corky little tale
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt hosted by Sammi Cox. This is my first time participating. I hope I get right.
In the quietude of twilight, a solitary tap resonates through the empty corridors, echoing off the dimly lit walls. It’s a gentle, rhythmic sound, almost musical as if the universe itself were keeping time. With each tap, memories flicker, casting shadows that dance in the mind’s eye. It’s a moment of connection, a simple, unassuming tap that bridges past and present, conjuring a symphony of silent reflections.
What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?
Over the last six months, I’ve experienced tremendous health issues. So, for the next six months, my biggest challenge is to maintain the progress I’ve made. I Have to learn to be patient and sit my stubborn butt down and heal. Well, that’s easier said than done.
Here is my answer to The Question of the Night #2
Where do you go to escape stress?
I’ve always been told I had a healthy imagination, so it is there I retreat to in times of stress. And this image is a representation of things going on a moment ago. Who knows what will happen next?
You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?
No one intends to fall in love with an asshole, but it happens; just ask my late wife and current girlfriend; they are the two sitting in the corner shaking their heads as they read this sentence.
What are three objects you couldn’t live without?
If I’m being honest, there are far too many I would hate to give up. I guess I’ve got soft over the years. However, if I absolutely had these three items I couldn’t live without.
1. Coffee – I don’t care about the garbage talked about drinking coffee. Bad things happen when I don’t have my coffee; don’t test me on this subject.
2. iPad Pro 12.9 – This is such a versatile tool. I can read books, Listen to audiobooks, write, and take and edit photos. I’ve been using an iPad model for over a decade. It’s hard to imagine working without one. I even tried out several versions of the Samsung tablets and compared them. Though Samsung makes a solid product, I prefer the iPad.
3. My Briefcase – My briefcase is far cooler than the one in the photo, but you get the idea. I have several items for survival contained inside.
Items may include, but are not limited to, the following:
Well, that’s it. That’s all of it.
Have you ever unintentionally broken the law?
It isn’t like I was a Boy Scout or something. Because I wasn’t, but I wasn’t a hooligan either. Yet, I got into my fair share of mischief. Strangely, I hardly got in trouble when I knowingly broke the law. However, I remember getting the most trouble when I had no idea I had broken the law. This happened so much, I learned the phrase,”Ignorance of the law is no excuse!” It always was said with a steely monotone. So yes, I’ve broken the law on accident more times than I care to admit.
Here is my response to RDP’S reconcile
I had been for a long time until it ran out of places to go. I ended up here sitting in the darkness hollowed out. I expected to find anything once I arrived, but I found her. She was sipping gas station coffee, grimishing each sip. Her gaze trapped in the moment between breaths. We started something in the next moment that should have lasted a lifetime. She captured my heart, so I gave her my soul.War reared its ugly head and took her snarling. Before that moment, we argued. About what I can’t remember, but now it’s too late to reconcile.
My response to Sadje’s challenge
Do you like the age you are now?
This is one of the easiest questions I’ve answered in a while. The answer is YES. I love it. However, it feels odd to say so when that hasn’t been the case. For decades, I had this thing where I wanted to be older than my age. Almost like I was born during the wrong era or something. The problem I could never settle on a period I really wanted to be from.
Then was the whole “you’re just a kid. You’ll understand when you get older.” I hated being treated like a kid. I refused to believe that age possessed this fountain of wisdom that eluded my entire youth. Often, I wondered what age or day I was going to understand the mysteries of the world suddenly. Would it be on a weekday? Or on the weekends? I hoped for sometime during the week because, let’s face it, on the weekends, there was beer and women to be ignored by. Disgusted or disapproving looks from members of the opposite sex while standing obnoxious with the fellas is a rite of passage.
However, I would like to be on a Monday if it was during the week. Many complain about Monday’s, but I don’t mind so much. Over the years, I found several to be rather pleasant. Tuesdays would be alright, too, yet it doesn’t pop off on Mondays. Any day after is a negative ghost rider. There to much preparation from the pending weekend. You can’t be bogged down with a complex thought. I can see it now, sitting there tugging on your peach fuzz chins, saying, “Hmm.” For those fellas who could grow full beards in high school, I am jealous.
I enjoy my age now because all I have to do is sit around looking at people like they’re crazy. Who needs cable? Have you ever looked at the younger folks when you get older? They are hilarious, aren’t they? It’s alright. You can admit it. The only drawback is the random, unprovoked ailments that surface periodically. Yes, I said unprovoked. This is my story, and I’m sticking with it. I can speak my mind. I’m old enough to know better but too old to give a shit. After all this crap of wishing I was older, I’m finally in the winter of life. It gets a little chilly at times, but hey. Excuse me while I slip on a sweater.
CHALLENGE RESPONSE
Here is my response to RDP’s prompt: Ink
There’s a thud as my quill hits the desk. My inkwell unleashes a howl mixed with desperation and relief. It’s a little beside itself because I haven’t written anything of note in months. My eyes burn from what was supposed to be all-nighter, but really only a few hours of spits and starts. Baby steps, huh? They got to be better than not writing anything all. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I stare at the ink stained fingers of my aching hands.
I close my eyes and the let the stream of world of random thoughts fill my screen. Each word typed is attempt to rediscover the path to a coherent thought. A thought minus the lure of ineffective painkillers. Taken only to help you forget the torment you’re suffering momentarily. Yet, forget the principle of pain; it’s a reminder we are alive. Each wince, cringe, or scream a verse in the testimony of our lives
Bradbury got it right in a way. We are tattooed neath the surfaces. Each of those tattoos are alive illustrating the moments that matter . Moments we acknowledge, yet include the ones swear that mean anything, but touch us so deeply.
My inkwell unleashes a belch, then stretches. A metallic click fills the room as the licks its lips and throats a “Thank you!” I refill my quill and pull out a fresh notebook. Then lean back in my office chair to rest.
“I knew that shit, you’re such a fucking tease!” My quill and inkwell declare in unison.
I close my eyes and chuckle ….
Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?
Throughout the years, I’ve collected one thing or another. In childhood most of my friends were collecting something. It seemed as though you weren’t a boy if you didn’t some sort of collection. This followed me into adulthood. However, just as it did childhood I would end losing interest or lose my prize of my collection that would render the entire collection worthless.
The hobby I was obsessed with that I have lost interest in is sports cards. I spent a ridiculous amount of time and money in collecting sports cards. I couldn’t tell you want happened to my collection. I can only say it has disappeared into that dimension where everything goes we lose. I’m sure I have a warehouse full of things in this unnamed dimension. I’d like to visit it one day, so I can clear some things out. You know organization is the key to everything..
The thing about sport cards for me is the fact you can a thousand cards stacked up somewhere that are absolutely worthless. You can’t trade them. You even give them away. There are just sitting there in a pile gathering dust. All in search of that coveted rookie card.
I’ve been here over a week. I’m not sure I have I left here on the front. My body is waging war against my spirit. My spirit is losing, but the battle is far from over. Last Monday, I walked into the ED thinking one thing and discovering another. Each day, we take another step toward victory. Each day, it feels we take five steps back toward defeat.
Despite this, I gaze upon the evening skew finding strength in its beauty. Each sighs becomes the breath of hope. In each breath I finds courage.
List five things you do for fun.
I live a simple life. Due to this, several folks accuse me of being unable to have fun. At first, this consensus troubled me. For 30 seconds, I considered that I might need to adjust my lifestyle. Once I explained my former everyday life, some turned green, others turned pale, and then my favorites informed me I’d earned the right to relax. I appreciate them saying that. I really do.
Here are my five things in no order. I do them whenever I feel like it.
That’s it. That’s all of it. The down and dirty.
When we have a conversation about leadership, one can find opinions and ideals with a few keystrokes. There are seminars, books, and articles thoroughly covering the subject. During my time in the military I read several in an attempt to find everything I could about becoming a better leader. I’ve listed a few below.
Principles of Leadership
Key leadership traits, each with a brief description:
Being a leader is more than the things found in books or articles. Leaders aren’t born. They are developed. Titles or positions don’t make you a leader. Learning how to handle the burden of leadership does. Good luck!
Here is my response to today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt – Time
Sitting within the wondering of unknown destiny.
Riding the waves of the abyss of sorrow.
Like the sands of the hourglass, the moments of a promiseless
tomorrow slip away
But…
Have you heard the news today?
Our kinsmen…
Our brethren…
Has passed away
Not of blood, but of spirit
What is felt goes by many names
yet the pain
remains the same
Remember…
He has been called home
to sit alongside our Master
and his golden throne
Boundfull
dutiful
we are
to acknowledge his words of passion and grace
for they have
Lifted us…
Caressed us…
Consoled us…
I wish to thank all those who have taken the time to read the ranting of a feeble mind.
From my stoop, on my soapbox, I stare into the abyss, then begin reading my list.
Life is short…
So kiss it…
taste it..
Close your eyes and
Savor it…
But most of all
LIVE IT !!!
One minute at a time
I wrote this piece years ago after the writing community had lost one of its brethren. To me, he was gentle, but wise soul with so much to offer. The writing community took a blow that day.
It doesn’t matter about the existence of time, moments we spend with one another count. Make the moments we spend even with strangers matter. Humanity’s most precious gift to one another is their time.
My response to RDP – Thursday – bamboozle
A spry little man named Barkan lived in the serpentine alleys of the ancient city of Khazan, notorious for its labyrinthine streets and enigmatic inhabitants. Barkan was not your average resident. He was a trickster, a master of bamboozles, and his clever ruses were the talk of the city.
Barkan was not always this cunning. Once upon a time, he was an innocent and naive boy. However, life in Khazan was tough, and the city’s harsh realities turned him into the wily person he had become. Yet, Barkan’s bamboozles were never harmful or malicious. They were light-hearted pranks aimed at teaching lessons to the arrogant and the pompous.
One day, a haughty nobleman named Lord Faizan visited Khazan. Rumors of Barkan’s bamboozles had reached him, and he was determined to outwit the trickster. Lord Faizan was known far and wide for his pride and arrogance, qualities that made him the perfect target for Barkan.
Upon his arrival, Lord Faizan announced a reward for anyone who could outsmart him. The city excitedly buzzed, and Barkan saw the perfect opportunity for his most significant bamboozle yet. He accepted the challenge, and the city held its breath, waiting for the grand showdown.
The next day, Barkan invited Lord Faizan to a feast at his humble abode. As the nobleman arrived, he was surprised by the simplicity of Barkan’s home. Little did he know, the grand bamboozle had already begun.
Here is my response for RDP Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.
Let me be blunt from the beginning. The snow was coming down heavy, but the wind blew it sideways. The temperature was dropping rapidly. I didn’t want to be out here, but the gig paid the bills. Prices were so high that you bought a loaf of bread or a gallon of gas. I got a letter in the mail today. An old friend I hadn’t heard from since we both reeked of innocence. I was more than a little envious because he had found the love of his life. He had found happiness. Sighs … good on you, brother! Good on you.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have a network of people in my life who let me know daily I’m loved. They have no problem letting me know when I’m full of crap or any other adjective they choose to use at any given time. I can’t blame them or hold any ill will because I’m a handful, as they say.
You may remember a post I made last year about two individuals who were geniuses. If not, here is a link to that post. What I didn’t tell you is these incredible women have been putting up with my crap for well over a decade. Every rant, tantrum, or foul mood, they have endured it all. They have been with me while I was grief-stricken from the loss of my wife. They were there when I rebuilt myself as a writer and educator to witness me self-destruct through my battle with cancer.
My closest and dearest friend, my editor, you’ve heard me complain about on several occasions on this blog. She put down her red pen and helped me through my cancer battle. She stopped everything and came to the initial surgery. Then she returned for my cancer’s aggressive reemergence. 56 treatments later, I took her home and started to rebuild my life once again. Honestly, I would have been a basket case without her support through all of this madness.
A few years ago, I could barely breathe, and my lady showed up and put a foot in my butt and got me back on my feet. Mumbling something about she couldn’t leave it to me to get proper medical attention. Now, that wasn’t the vernacular she used during her time here. I’m sure you can imagine what was said to a stubborn person such as myself. Their words, not mine. I’m an utterly compliant person. I assure you.
It can’t be easy to deal with me, but their devotion, compassion, and love mean everything. It may even seem at times I don’t appreciate you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I love you and appreciate you both; never doubt this. Yep, you guys are a pain, but I love ya.
My response to RDP’s Wednesday prompt.
This morning, I was reviewing this prompt and trying to figure out how to approach it. I knew I didn’t have any photos that featured hatching of some kind. I ran across an image of an old hatchback and remembered our adventures in high school.
A buddy of mine brought a Datsun B210 hatchback and drove everywhere in that thing. Most of the time, there were three of us. We would travel to a nearby town so he could profess his undying love to his girlfriend. It was the stuff they write stories about for about six months. We would buy a case of beer Saturday night and head to the highway. I don’t remember her name or what she looked like.
We all professed our love at one time or another in that car. We traveled hundreds of miles doing so. I suppose we were allergic to the idea of having a local girlfriend. None of us ended up with any of the women that we loved so dearly. I haven’t seen those guys in over 30 years. However, I remember the times we spent together in that hatchback.
The Datsun we rode in looked like the one in the photo. The memories just flood back. In fact, our car didn’t have a reverse. So, whenever we parked, we’d stick our foot out of the car and push backward. I wonder what happened to those guys? I hope life was gentler than mine.
The morning chill creeps through my layers as I sit on my porch, twirling my finger playfully in my whiskers. I swallow a sip of coffee while tugging at them, lost in the depths of my thoughts. The amber glow of the collision between night and dawn illuminates the horizon. Today, a man was born that brought so much light to the world. His presence hurled us out of a darkness that had engulfed us for nearly a hundred years—a man whose vision, courage, and devotion to humanity will never be forgotten.
Sipping coffee, I watch the lights turn on one by one as the neighborhood awakens. A community in which I could have never lived if it wasn’t for this man’s efforts. Not because where I live now is better than where I grew up. Society’s attitude is better. I remember the speech of this brave man as a child being replayed every year during my youth: a vision of hope, love, determination, and courage. His speech or vision served as a beacon representing one of hell of a dream.
Now a seasoned man, I wonder if my efforts in life have helped fulfill that dream. We fought for God, Country, and the ideal of freedom. We spent countless hours away from home in pursuit of the vision on the mountaintop. The endless miles walked for the dream of the Promised Land. No mile did I walk alone. Each mile walked and every hour spent away was in the faith that a moment of hatred was erased. I hoped they would ring the bell of freedom. A sound heard in the souls of each man and woman in the land. A faith I held on to with all my might, even though it was sometimes fleeting.
Each time I heard the word Jew, it took away a little bit of hope. Whenever I heard the word cracker, freedom’s bell rang a little softer. Every time I heard the word spick or chili pepper, humanity’s love got a little weaker. Each time I heard the nigger humanity’s dignity lessen. However, each time I heard these, we fought harder to fulfill the dream of a man we had never known. We risked our lives to fulfill a dream our forefathers wrote nearly two hundred years before my birth.
I look upon my granddaughter, who shifts under her blanket of freedom provided by the fulfillment of this dream, a granddaughter who turns a year older today. She is allowed to live in a world and taste the crispness of a freedom that wouldn’t have been without his dream. A smile comes across my face as I finish my coffee. I smack my lips because I, too, taste the crispness of freedom in the fresh morning air.
Now, I’m a great-grandfather. I still taste the crispness of freedom in the morning air. It’s rather tasty!
Yesterday, I stood in line at a local store when the computer system went down. After a wave of groans and disapproving looks, the manager assured us the system would be online shortly. This didn’t help the groans. I understood a possible reason for the atmosphere. We were in the middle of a snowstorm, and the conditions were worsening by the second. However, examining the crowd, I’m pretty sure they would have been complaining regardless. Complaining is the latest trend, like yoga pants and foo-foo coffee.
The system took longer than expected, and the manager declared, “It’s like dial-up!” I shook my head, “Not even close,” I corrected. We had a laugh; the system was up a few seconds later, and all was right in the world. Within a few minutes, the grandson and I were inside, safe and warm.
I see this prompt, and I’m reminded of how impatient we all have become since the advancements of technology. Despite this, I pretty much communicate the same way I did at the start of all this. Other than things being a helluva a lot faster, I’m the same guy. I’ve added social media stuff from time to time, but I basically avoid it. With the exception of Twitter, there is a writing community over there that I’ve been a part of for nearly a decade.
So when things get crazy … I just think … I remember dial-up
What job would you do for free?
The unfinished projects have formed a pile. Ideas, rants, and incoherent sentences fester. Sometimes I wonder what Goofball gave me the idea to become a writer. Where the hell are they at? I need to hunt them down wherever they may cleverly hide. To the corners of the earth if I must. By God, I need to find and look at them square in the eyes and thank them. Pull them into an embrace. Please do not think less of me, for I may weep. They have provided me with a fantastic gift. You see, boredom will never be a problem for me. Inside each project is the potential to create something that never existed before. At the very least, the potential to heal.
Today has been the longest of days for no reason. Nothing I can put my finger on anyway. I got so much accomplished, but so much more to do. There isn’t enough time to get it all done. I never complete it all. My Lord, what will I do? What will I do? We have all said this statement, felt it, or both. It doesn’t matter if you don’t admit it. It’s fine. Know that wherever you are in your journey, we all have or will walk it. The trail right in front of you. You can get to the other side step by step, word by word, or sentence by sentence. Whatever the method you will be the better for it.
As I lay across my bed, I lit a cigarette, letting it burn in the ashtray for a few minutes before I took another drag. I read a poem in Vietnamese, then I listened to it. Next, I read some prose in Italian; then again, I listened to it. The beauty of the words captured me. I’m reminded of hearing The Holy Quran recited. So beautiful and tranquil. I’m reminded how much I miss Latin Mass. I memorized it as a lad and recited it in English when the priests performed Mass. Though exhausted, hearing these works in their native language healed and recharged me a bit.
I would not have discovered the beauty of our world if I had chosen another profession on the day they whispered to me to become a writer. Although we live in a vast world full of wonder and delight, I wonder why we live so small.
Nope, this is the only profession I would do for free. Nothing else completes me.
When are you most happy?
I find myself the most happy when I’m lost in a good story. It took a long time to figure out how to enjoy reading stories without my imagination taking off, and I lost interest in the story. I began making notes in little spiral notebooks of the thoughts that came to me as I read. Soon, those notebooks were being filled with my own stories. I’m unsure what makes me happier? The words of others or the words of mine? To me, it doesn’t matter, not really. As long as the story is good.
I remember when I was feeling down as kid, my mother would drag my butt over to our local DQ and get me one of these masterfully crafted desserts of deliciousness. She always knew just the right time to take me to get one. It never seemed like I knew the exact time. But I’m thinking I might need one today. It’s been a rough couple of months.
Questions like these make me roll my eyes and shake my head. It seems like the next thing they will be asking is,
“What does it all mean?”
What’s my place in the world?”
And more nonsense questions. I have this attitude because it is the decisions we make that cause us to become who we are.
Sure, we have situations in life we would like to do-over or take back. It’s just the nature of life. However, neither of those things are possible. So, when someone asks questions like these. I respond with the following question:
“You’ve had your entire life to prepare for this moment … why aren’t you ready?”
Every decision we have made in life has led to where we are … the good, the bad, and the ugly. Do we really want to change anything?
As always,
If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?
As a child, I remember watching baseball on television with my mother. I didn’t understand what I was watching, but I enjoyed my mother’s excitement as she watched her beloved “Cubbies.” However, the idea of playing the sport never really stuck. I played softball for a while but lost interest. I still enjoy watching the games when I have time to catch them. So, when I read this prompt, I knew I had to write a baseball story of sorts.
Once upon a time, a man named Rico Strong lived in a small town called Willowville. Rico was known far and wide for his extraordinary talent in training animals. He had a special connection with ferrets and platypuses and a dream – to create a baseball team like no other. But not just any baseball team; Rico wanted to form a team with pink ferrets and an angry platypus.
Rico had always been fascinated by the agility and quickness of ferrets. He believed their instincts and nimbleness would make them perfect for the outfield. As for the platypus, Rico had observed their fierce determination and strong-willed nature, which he thought would be ideal for a powerful pitcher. It was a crazy idea, but Rico was determined to make it a reality.
He traveled far and wide, scouring the world for pink ferrets and an angry platypus. He visited rainforests, deserts, and even remote islands in search of these unique creatures. He encountered countless challenges along his journey, but Rico’s determination never wavered. He faced treacherous terrains, wild animals, and even unexpected weather but pressed on, fueled by his unwavering passion.
Finally, after months of searching, Rico found what he was looking for. In a hidden valley deep within the mountains, he discovered a group of pink ferrets with shimmering fur. They were playful, agile, and had an undeniable charm. Rico knew he had struck gold with these ferrets.
But his journey wasn’t over yet. Rico had heard rumors of an angry platypus living in a far-off swamp. Determined not to give up, he ventured into the swamp despite the warnings of its dangers. And there, in a murky pond, Rico found the angry platypus. It was bigger and fiercer than he had imagined, with venomous spurs and a fiery gaze. Rico knew he had found the missing piece of his team.
With his team of pink ferrets and the angry platypus, Rico set out to fulfill his dream. He built a baseball field in Willowville with state-of-the-art facilities and a cheering crowd. Word quickly spread about his unique team, and people from all over came to watch the Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus play. The team’s agility, speed, and determination were unmatched, making them a force to be reckoned with.
As the team played their games, they faced many challenges. They encountered teams with stronger hitters, faster runners, and more experienced pitchers. But Rico’s team had something special – their unbreakable bond and unwavering spirit. They supported each other, cheered on, and never gave up.
The Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus became the talk of the town with their incredible plays and electrifying performances. They won game after game, leaving their opponents in awe. Rico’s unique team captured the hearts of the locals and, media and baseball enthusiasts worldwide.
Ultimately, the Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus became more than just a baseball team. They symbolized courage, unity, and the power of following one’s dreams. Rico Strong’s extraordinary vision had turned a seemingly crazy idea into a remarkable reality.
And so, the legacy of the Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus baseball team lived on, inspiring generations to come. Their story was passed down from one baseball fan to another, reminding everyone that anything is possible with passion, determination, and a little imagination. The team’s success paved the way for more unconventional and innovative approaches in sports, proving that sometimes, the most extraordinary things can come from the most unexpected places.
The Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus left a lasting impact on the baseball world, forever etching their names in the annals of sports history. Their remarkable journey was a testament to the power of teamwork, dedication, and belief in the impossible. Rico Strong’s dream had not only come true but had exceeded all expectations, leaving an indelible mark on the hearts and minds of all who witnessed their extraordinary feats.
The rattling of the window in the wind wakes me. Slowly, I stretch away the night, my eyes shift from darkness to a haze, and my eyes shift into focus from slumber to reality. I hear the whirling hiss as the snow hits the screen. I make my way to the kitchen to brew some sanity. Its aroma filled the room in a matter of seconds. In minutes, I am nursing a cup by the window. The night has yet to surrender to dawn. Yet, to tuck itself away, partaking in the much-needed rest. If you look closely and catch it just right, you can see the snowflake’s form before it dissolves against the glass.
It is the perfect day for cuddling. Her head nestled in that special place. My breathing was slow, and my heart skipped a beat, so we were in unison. So that we are connected. Connected on the spiritual level, not just the profane, it is a perfect morning for loving. A soft, slow, lingering turns into a slow grind. To evolve into a breathless gasp that surrenders to a moan. A moan becomes a pant, then a scream, then a contentment sigh is released. Then, fall into a deep, coma-like sleep.
Memoirs of Madness 