Contest!!
Before we get to the specifics of the Jacob Wonderbar Funny Writing Contest Spectacular Happening Event, for a little extra boost of motivation let’s give a quick shout out to the past contest finalists who have since gone on to be published or soon-to-be published authors:
Staurt Neville! Victoria Schwab! Terry DeHart! Michelle Hodkin! Michelle Davidson Argyle! Joshua McCune! Natalie Whipple! Josin L. McQuein! Jeanne Ryan! Peter Cooper!
Stars are born in these contests. STARS ARE BORN.
Will you join their ranks?! Let’s find out.
Now then. The premise of the Jacob Wonderbar Funny Writing Contest Spectacular Happening Event is thus:
Write a funny scene.
Simple, right?
IT IS NOT. Funny is hard work, people.
Your prizes!
The ultimate grand prize winner of the Jacob Wonderbar Funny Writing Contest Spectacular Happening Event will win:
1) The pride of knowing you are one seriously hilarious individual.
2) A partial critique from me.
3) A signed ARC of JACOB WONDERBAR FOR PRESIDENT OF THE UNIVERSE, the sequel to JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW, which will be released in April 2012:
 |
| Space monkeys!! |
The runners up of the JWFWCSHE will win query critiques or other agreed-on substitutes.
Yes, there are rules. They are:
I) This is a for-fun contest. Rules may be adjusted without notice, but this one will always remain: please don’t take the contest overly seriously. Hear me? YOU WILL HAVE FUN WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.
II) Please post your funny scene in the comments section of THIS POST. Please do not e-mail me your submission. The deadline for entry is THURSDAY 6pm Pacific time, at which point entries will be closed. Finalists will be announced…. sometime after that.
III) Your word count limit: 350 words. You can do this. Your entry can either be from a work in progress or something you compose for this contest spectacular happening event.
IV) Please please check and double-check and triple-check your entry before posting. But if you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post your entry. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos, nor should you be.
V) You may enter once, once you may enter, and enter once you may. If you post anonymously, make sure you leave your name.
VI) Spreading word about the contest is strongly encouraged.
VII) I will be sole judge of the finalists. You the people will be the sole judge of the ultimate winner.
VIII) You must be at least 14 years old and less than 189 years old to enter. No exceptions.
IX) I’m on Twitter and may be posting contest updates! Follow me here:
That is all.
GOOD LUCK! May the most hilarious entry be extremely hilarious.
JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW, about three kids who blast off into space and find their way back home, was published by Dial Books for Young Readers in May and is available at:
Amazon (hardcover)
Amazon (Kindle)
Barnes & Noble (hardcover)
Barnes & Noble (Nook)
Books-a-Million
Borders
Indiebound
Powell’s
This is from a YA manuscript of mine. In this tidbit, the 16-year-old protagonist is babysitting for the very first time:
The mini-van had barely burned rubber pulling out of the driveway when I heard the first war whoop from the front porch. I looked up in horror to find five-year-old Aiden with feathers in his hair, smearing something on one-year-old Kate, who was being immobilized by three-year-old Ellen.
“What are you guys doing?” I asked, running to the porch.
“Playing Peter Pan,” Ellen answered. “Kate’s Tiger Lily.”
Tiger Lily? Doesn’t Captain Hook try to drown Tiger Lily? Uh, not good. Better keep them away from the bathtub.
“Is this fingerpaint?” I asked, pointing to the thick stuff Aiden was smearing on the baby.
“Nope. It’s Mom’s stuff. But I mixed it with flour to make war paint!” Aiden said.
I took a good look at the war paint. It was oily, thick and dusty rose in color. Holy crap! He’d mixed a stick of blush with flour! And he’d streaked it all across his tee shirt and his own face as well.
“Hey, that’s enough of that on Kate,” I said, tugging the squirming baby out of her sister’s arms. Kate immediately began to scream. “I think we’d better play the clean up game now!” I was trying to be cheerful.
“No way!” Aiden screamed and ran off the porch and around to the back yard with Ellen following.
I took the holwing Kate into the kitchen and wiped as much goo as possible off of her. Distracting her with a stuffed elephant, I managed to get most of the flour off the floor before the realization hit me. Where was the other kid? There were four of them, but I’d only seen three so far.
I ran to the kitchen door and threw it open. I was just in time to find Ellen holding two-year-old Ricky’s arms behind a croquet post while Aiden was dousing him with lighter fluid. A box of matches was on the grass near them.
“We captured him!” Aiden announced to me proudly.
A barbarian crashed into the temple clearing and opened his mouth to shout.
Zarek-Amun stopped sweeping the six-hundred and sixty-six steps of the temple and cut him off. "Can I help you?"
The barbarian's sword wavered and his glare dissolved into a squint. "Uh. Is this the Black Temple of Ee?"
Zarek looked up the long staircase to where an enormous tentacled monstrosity, carved in black stone, draped the temple entrance. "Why do you ask?"
"There's supposed to be priests here and naked ladies and heaps of treasure." Kor waggled his heavy eyebrows and grinned. "You know?"
"No I don't," Zarek said. "We've got dust. And rocks. That's about it. And a bit of dried mud that someone dragged in last week. I don't know why I bother putting out the boot scraper when nobody uses it."
"Are you sure? Can I look?"
"Are your boots clean?"
Kor lifted first one foot, then the other. "Um," he said. "No. The forest is kind of damp, and there are lots of animals."
"Then kindly stay out."
"But…" Kor drew himself up and his voice grew deeper. "I'm Kor the Northlander. I tread the jeweled thrones under my feet…"
"Fine. Just don't do it where I've swept."
"Look. I'm here to pillage and slay."
Zarek smiled. "Oh, well. I'm afraid we were pillaged last week, and it's going to be at least a month before anyone comes by who needs a good slaying."
"Really?" Kor's shoulder's slumped. "Look, do you know anywhere…?"
"Well, I could point you to the Ancient Brotherhood of Soth Yogurt in the Forbidden Forest."
"They sent me here."
"Oh, they did?" Zarek gritted his teeth. "Well, have you tried the Eldrich Grotto of Murku? North side of the Dark Tower, fourth temple on the right? I hear the high priestess doesn't go in much for clothing."
Kor brightened. "Ah! A foul temptress?"
Zarek pictured the high priestess of Murku, mentally trying to reverse the ravages inflicted by eighty years of tending to an incontinent god in an unlit cave. "Something like that," he said. "You're half right."
From a WIP, Death Hires An Assistant:
”Hey. What’s up?”
”You stole my earplugs,” Lidia announced.
”Nope, only borrowed them.” Dar rummaged in her pocket, finding only one squashed and waxy earplug.
”Ugh. They are now your earplugs.” Lidia was smiling and that worried Dar. It was a ‘cat that got the cream but never managed to put on any weight’ smile.
“Man, am I glad I got to you before you disappeared into the library. I hate going in there. They all look at me.”
“That’s because you’re usually bouncing off the walls and making too much noise.”
“Oliver likes it when I bounce.” She demonstrated how bouncing might make Oliver happy.
“Please, don’t tease that boy, you know he’s crushing hard on you.”
“Yeah. I know. Not my type. Too quiet.”
“Lids, he’s a librarian. He has to be quiet at work. What do you expect?”
“Yeah, but he’s all repressive and shit with his‘sh’s’ and ‘Can you keep it down?’ bullshit. Brings me down and you know I’m naturally exuberant.”
“Again Lidia, it’s a library. People need quite in there to read and think.”
“Well, I do my best thinking when it’s really noisy. And if someone is talking to me at the same time, even better. Like if I have ET or TMZ on. Then, watch out. Big thoughts. And anyway, how can you think in that place? It smells.”
“It does not. Okay, Mrs. Coxon smells a little bit like wet wool, but the library itself smells gorgeous,” Dar said dreamily. She wished was at seat number 127 right now instead of waiting for her crazy roommate to drop whatever bomb she’d carried across town with her. With Lidia, there were no coincidences and no good surprises, only monumental, well-intentioned ‘oopsies’.
“Why have you run me to ground, Lids? Rent’s not due for a week.”
“Not rent. In fact not any kind of bad news.” Instead of relieving Dar’s mind, this only managed to coalesce her rising sense of ‘Uh Oh’. Her beloved friend had gotten Dar into some serious trouble in the past.
“Brace yourself.”
“Always, when talking to you.”
WIP "The Boy with the Mustard Mustache"
The second bell rang. Marshall was now officially late for class. He shoved the rest of the liverwurst sandwich in his mouth, smearing the globs of mustard – that his mother lovingly… uh… well, globbed onto the sub – above his upper lip. It made an astonishingly precise, yellow mustache on his face.
He could feel the condimental nose tickler, but had nothing to wipe it off with. He couldn’t use the sleeve of the dress shirt that his mother had forced him to wear (and threatened him within an inch of his life if he got it dirty) and he wasn’t going to use his hand. He had to go to class like this. As he raced down the hall, he imagined all the comments he was going to get… something he didn’t relish.
As he turned the corner, Marshall ran into Mr. Brost, the principal.
“There you are!”
Marshall stopped in his tracks.
“We’ve been looking for you. You must be Mr. Wishwell.”
Marshall cocked his head. What the heck was he talking about?
Mr. Brost looked him up and down and gave a brief scowl. “You’re kind of short for a substitute teacher.”
“I—“
“And we don’t approve of facial hair here at Norman Z. McLeod Elementary.”
“You don’t understand, it’s a mistake. I—“
“We’ll let it slide for today. Come along.”
Mr. Brost grabbed Marshall by the elbow and escorted him down the corridor. Without looking at Marshall further, he said, “Maybe the kids will identify with someone more their height.”
Marshall protested. “I can’t teach them anything!”
“Who can?” said Mr. Brost.
“I mean… I don’t know anything.”
“It doesn’t make a difference. We’re going on a field trip today. They’ll do whatever you tell them, the lemmings.”
“Lemmings? Those are rodents that jump off cliffs.”
“So, you do know something,” Mr. Brost said, depositing him at the door of his own homeroom.
Captain Snotbeard and his ragtag crew of miscreants, malcontents and mummys' boys were trudging back down the tunnels to the inlet where their trusty ship, the Bain Marie, was moored.
The trouble was, no one could agree on where they'd parked.
'I'm sure it was near that mermaid over there,' said Rat Nose.
'Mermaids can swim, you idiot,' said Soap Dodger, one of the brainiest pirates. 'They don't just stay in one place all day.'
'Oh yeah,' said Rat Nose grudgingly.
'It was definitely moored to a rock,' said Spot Face.
'That's very helpful,' said Rat Nose sarcastically, trying to deflect the badge of idiocy onto someone else.'
'Quiet, all of you!' snapped Captain Snotbeard. 'I be trying to think.'
'Shush, you bunch of scurvy dogs!' said Rat Nose, seizing the opportunity to assert his authority.
'That includes you, Rat Nose,' said the captain, with a heavy sigh.
'Sorry.'
The captain scratched his green, crusty beard. He hadn't got his pirate name for nothing.
'Ah!' he growled in relief. 'I know where I put it. Next to the rock with moss shaped like me old mum's face. Oh mummy…'
He curled up into a little ball on the ground and started to suck his thumb. The other pirates stood around and looked at each other. They were never quite sure what to do when he started acting like this. One Eared Joe had once made fun of him for doing it. That was back when he was known as Two Eared Joe.
Rat Nose cleared his throat. 'Ahem. Maybe we should start the search, cap'n?'
Snotbeard waved his hand, signalling for them to begin looking, while he continued to lie on the ground sucking his thumb.
Nothing much has been happening here. Except, yesterday I was surfing when I saw a tsunami towering on the horizon. I swam out to catch the wall–caught it right in the curl. What a ride. I saw the tip of the San Francisco pyramid peaking out of the water as I flashed by. After a few hours I saw the Rockies looming ahead and that’s where the tsunami finally broke. I think I might have been crushed in the break if I hadn’t been lucky enough to get tossed onto a ski slope. I flashed down the slope at about 120 miles per hour. When I got off it took two miles to slow me down with sparks flying off the bottom of my surfboard. I finally stopped on the outskirts of Denver. I decided to abandon my surfboard with much regret–all that was left was the logo. I tried to hitchhike back west, but nobody would pick me up. Probably because of the wetsuit. So I pawned the wet suit for $20 and ran naked to the thrift store, where I bought some plaid pants and a polka-dotted shirt. Then a grocery store–Medico pipe, some Captain Black, and a can of beans. But still no luck with the thumb! So I walked to a train yard and hopped into an empty boxcar on a train pointing west. I had been savvy enough to gather wood for a fire before I got in the boxcar, and also picked up a newspaper for kindling. You know, it was that special edition New York Times in which the Republicans and Democrats both admitted to vast corruption and resigned, handing the government over to Venezuela. I used that paper to start a fire on the steel floor, and kept warm as the freight trained rolled west. Ate my beans, then sat dangling my legs out the door, smoking my Medico, and thinking philosophically. In the morning I was in the Oakland freight yards and only had to swim across the bay to get back home. Otherwise, nothing much has happened here.
Donald walked into class with the witch’s words still tickling his ears: “The little girlies will love you, be drawn to you like flies on socks.” He trusted the blue-eyed blond witch playing Angry Birds on her iPad implicitly. “Young love,” she said, “is the sweetest nectar, but here’s a safe word in case you disagree.” She handed him a scrap.
With a steely breath Donald plopped down in front of Candy and dared her to defy his new powers. She turned her great big eyes in his direction, but instead of seedy disgust – interest.
“You look different Ronald.”
“Donald.”
“More…distinguished.” She smiled and reached out a hand. He so wanted this lollipop beauty to touch him, trying not to wonder how her stick body held up her anime balloon head. His insides shivered as she touched his nose. Nose?
“So big,” she cooed. As on command a wet ‘pop’ sounded, like extricating your fist from a jar of preserves and Donald’s nose doubled in size. “Oh, my,” her urgings grew and she stroked his nose harder. It grew again, the weight pulling his face down. It started to drip. Another touch and his nose covered his mouth, bouncing against his lips and causing him to sputter with each breath as his sinus troubles magnified tenfold.
Donald pulled back horrified, splattering Candy with a sneeze like a hurricane.
Agnes walked by, stopped, her waxy, black-painted mouth curling up, arching the twenty-three silver lip-rings in a smile. Agnes never smiled. “God, what ears.” Her breath like sulfur and Donald’s head slapped to the desk, pulled down by the elephantine size of his left ear. So much wax.
“You have great elbows!” said another soft voice. The bowling ball joints slammed him to the ground.
“Your teeth!” A gap like a canyon.
“Sexy mole!” A manatee sprouted on his neck.
A dozen beautiful girls swarmed, crushing him under their love.
“Impotence!” His safe word snapped him back. The girls scattered. Alone. He breathed in relief and sadness.
But one girl still had eyes for him: tall, gorgeous … cross-eyed.
The recycled air of the spaceship whispers around me. I dodge a breath before a shuriken would’ve sliced through my throat.
“Adequate.”
I yank off the blindfold. “Adequate?”
My training master frowns. “I got another complaint about you, Red Ninja.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m completing my missions, master. There’s no reason to complain.”
“Purple Ninja says you broke protocol. When you jumped through the pirate ship’s space window you failed to yell sneak attack.”
I resist yelling that Purple Ninja is a know-it-all snob. A ninja keeps composer. “I was trying to be quiet. Yelling sneak attack would have undone that.”
Blue Ninja drifts across the room in a bubble of calm. “It doesn’t matter what you think about the protocol, Red Ninja, you must follow it. What if Yellow Ninja felt like wearing pink one day? Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue?”
“I wasn’t defying protocol, I just thought I’d skip the yelling step is all.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead. Calm, calm.
“You just thought?” Blue Ninja’s eye twitches. “Yelling your attack beforehand is a matter of honor. Without honor you are nothing more than a pirate. Are you a pirate, Red Ninja?”
I sigh. “No, master.”
“Then follow the protocol. “
Unable to stand it any longer, I blurt out, “What if the protocol is wrong? What if it’s killing us? The protocol is what told us to paint ‘Super Secret Ninja Base’ on the side of that ship that got blown up by pirates.”
“The protocol is sacred. We do not question it.”
“The protocol is based on a cartoon-”
“Quiet! Do no reveal our secrets. There are spies everywhere.” Blue Ninja’s eyes dart around the room as if pirates could be hiding behind the water cooler.
“We’re not a secret! Green Ninja has his own talk show!”
“Would you shut up? You’re going to hurt our ratings.”
“You know what? My name is Ronald. And I quit your stupid ninja society.”
Fun contest! This is from my current WIP,Silenced by the Yams, my third Barbara Marr Mystery. Barb is at the dentist with her daughter and mother-in-law and they have just been talking with a male patient who leaves just before this scene:
“He was nice,” Amber said sweetly as the door closed behind him.
“Yes, he was,” I agreed.
She nodded. “And well-hung, too.”
Uh oh.
Here’s the thing: scientists really need to work on inventing that beam-me-up transportation device like they have in Star Trek. Not so we can explore brave new worlds and boldly go where no man has gone before. No. We need it for mothers whose child has just unleashed the most embarrassing comment of the century before an entire room of people with perfect hearing.
Of course, we don’t have transporters or cute, Scottish engineers to rescue horrified mothers yet, so there I stood—pale, wide-eyed, and speechless.
And I still had to pay my bill.
Mama Marr broke the awkward moment by piping up. “What does this mean, well-hung?” She said these last two words so loud that I’m sure the FBI, the CIA and QVC picked them up on satellite.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, a woman had to get judgmental and vocal at the same time. “Where on earth would such a young girl hear that kind of language?”
Amber pointed to Judi. “Dr. Horner’s house.”
Judi Horner gasped, compelling Mama Marr to ask again. “Tell me what this means, ‘well-hung’?”
By now, mothers were evacuating their children from the office with the speed of Olympic runners racing to the finish line, until the only people left were Judi, her stunned receptionist, me, Amber, and poor, uneducated Mama Marr.
“Judi, I’m so sorry,” I stammered while part of me silently wondered, was he?
A mortified Judi tried to talk, but it wasn’t going very well. “I . . . I . . .”
Sadly, she never finished that sentence.
Mama Marr was simply in a fit. “Would somebody please tell me what this means, ‘well-hung’?”
That must have been the well-hung that broke the dentist’s back because Dr. Judi Horner fainted dead away.
Amber finally spoke, a halo of innocence glowing over her springy red curls. “It means he wears nice clothes, Mama. What’s the big deal?”
Fun contest Nathan thanks.
****
It’s ironic really, being invisible and having to go into the girl’s locker room only to locate your sister.But there I was, in the hallways of Harrelson High, trying to find Wendy, the only person who would understand “the situation”. My hope was she didn’t think I was trying to make a Jersey Shore reference and remembered the nagging “forever cursed” part that didn’t bode well for me. I took a deep breath, as if holding it would make me even more invisible, and opened the door.
Luckily, it was quiet and empty inside. The room itself smelled of flowery lotions and orange Creamsicles. Although, isn’t this the place every guy answers when asked the question, “If you were invisible, where would you go?”
I let out a sigh.
Still standing in the door’s threshold, I counted to eighty trying to make sure I gave myself enough lead time. Wendy was part of the swim team, so that meant she’d be changing clothes and into her team bathing suit. I shuttered at the thought of catching my sister in the buff. Ok, time was running out, I needed a different approach.
“Wendy.” I said, calling out.
“Who is that?”
Rounding a row of lockers, fully dressed in her swimming suit was Wendy. I released my wincing face. Wendy was looking right at me, but I knew she didn’t see me when she gave up and went back to her locker on the other side.
I went after her.
“Wendy? It’s me Sam.”
She jerked her body back, obviously spooked.
“Sam!” Her face melted in horror as she searched the room for me. A realization hit her and she sucked in a gasp.
“You didn’t!” Her arms where raised, still on edge, looking like she was ready to put up a fight.
"Where are you?”
“Here.”
“Where?”
With my thumb and forefinger I pinched an article of her clothing lifting it in mid air.
“Here.”
“You are so dead and put my bra down!”
Being a ghost these days sounds too dull. All the ghost shows on TV are all spooky, hard to understand EVP here, cold spot there, maybe an odd shadow in the room, in short BORING! It makes a spirit long for the white light. But, no I’m stuck here and in this horrible neon orange bridesmaid dress my cousin Ashley made me wear on what turned out to be the last day of my life. Who heard of a ghost in bright tangerine ruffles; or for that matter anyone but the bride being the one that became a ghost on a wedding day? But then again most ghosts get someplace cooler then a McDonalds to haunt too. Although, I can’t complain too much, no really it’s a rule like in “The Little Mermaid” or something. (The original one where she ends up drowning or stabs herself, I don’t remember which but she ends up sea foam and then floats around in the air being punished for running into random brats , not the happily ever after Disney princess one.)
Want to know some other fun ghost rules? Let’s check the “Ghost Record Official Book.” I know odd word order, it’s translated from something. Title page, acknowledgements, table of contents . . . OK here is something useful, “this book is abbreviated as the GROB and the abbreviation is usually pronounced as Borg, or The Borg due to the unusually large number of Star Trek fans or “Trekkies “ who have become ghost in the last few decades.” Great, now if I run into another ghost they’ll ask me to pet their tribble or something.
“So, now you’re a ghost,” that sounds like a good place to start, give me a moment to read this. Great, dead for only a day? week? Since last Saturday? I really need to check the TV for a date, being dead totally messes with your sense of time. But still only dead long enough to know I’m surrounded by speakers of Klingon and already talking to myself!
Robert exploded from his parent’s SUV like a cat from a car carrier. Sloppy southern heat hung off his freckled skin while he attempted to make his flimsy poster board to behave. Walking in late for career day was the worst possible thing for a boy like Robert to do because militant Mrs. Hildebrandt would punish him by making him go first.
“Mr. Dirksmeyer, I did not realize my class began at a quarter past eight. Please enlighten us with your oral report.”
Robert wobbled up to the front of the class in mismatched shoes. While he unrolled the crumpled poster board, his voice broke embarrassingly as he began his speech about the topic: Public Relations Consultant.
Giggling bubbled up around the room, but Robert was used to the class’ laughter. His frizzy hair and clumsy limbs evoked snickering from the first day he came to Bentwood High. At the end of his presentation, he stood and waited for Mrs. Hildebrandt’s judgment. Laughter grew louder as he stood fumbling with his poster. Soon a cacophony of smothered coughs revealed a classroom full of laughing peers. Robert noticed blushing female faces and scornful male ones. He let his eyes travel to Mrs. Hildebrandt who had placed her head in her palm in obvious annoyance.
“Hey, DORKSmeyer!” A jock called out.
“Yes,” Robert whispered.
“Why does your poster say, PUBIC Relations Consultant?”
Somewhere the invisible dam holding back riotous laughter busted and embarrassment drenched Robert in a deluge.
He tripped out of the room.
After hiding out in a moldy utility closet for nearly an hour, Robert heard a knock at the door.
“Robert?” The accent was unmistakable. “Robert I hear the children talk in the hallway.” Juan, the school’s custodian was checking on him. His.Life.Was.Over.
Juan’s broken English echoed through the door. “Roberto, don’t let them get you. Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?”
Robert slumped against an old dirty mop. “Yeah, my dignity.”
“Ha, Si! Very a funny nino! Kids come around. You'll see.”
Luck and Co. (Middle-grade)
The moment I leave the Principal’s office, I rush to find Becca Creuser. I spot her easily in the schoolyard, her ponytail decorated with a fake flower the size of a cabbage.
“Becca,” I pant, “may I join Your Gardening Club?” I stress all the capital letters with my voice.
She gives me a once-over. “It’s not mine, and it’s not a ‘Gardening Club.’ It’s the Franklin Park Middle School Botanical Society.”
“Right,” I say. “Can I join that?”
Becca puts her hands on her hips. “And why do you want to join us, Skye?”
“I…well…love plants and…flowers…and animals and…mmm…fertilizers.”
She frowns. “We don’t deal with animals.”
“Okay,” I say. “I won’t either. Not a single darn animal.”
Becca drawstrings her mouth. “Well…you can try joining us. Fill out this questionnaire, and we will review it during our next session.”
She pulls a stack of paper out of her bag and drops it into my hands. I read the first question: “List all the plants you have ever grown in a chronological order.”
I’ve never even owned a plant.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Roy wriggling with laughter a step away from me. He heard everything, and his grin’s reaching his earlobes. Now I absolutely must join that blasted gardening club.
Clutching the questionnaire, I look at Becca with despair, and that’s when it strikes me that today I have a currency more valuable than gold at our school.
“Listen,” I whisper, “I know how to tell boys from girls. You know…without looking under their clothes.”
Becca leans in so fast her forehead knocks against mine. “How?”
“Only girls know the names of flowers.”
Becca blossoms. “That’s so true!”
There’s so much spirit in her voice that I vow to learn some flower names. Because if this test comes around, I’ll flunk it myself.
I push the questionnaire back to her. “I’m in, right?”
Becca straightens the cabbage on her head. “Fine. But you still need to answer the questions.”
I surreptitiously stick my tongue at Roy, and he narrows his eyes—it’s his turn now.
Thanks, Nathan. This is so much fun.
Elena
I glanced over at Rebecca, resplendent in her evening gown, as we stood together on the doorstep of doom.
“We should go back to the hotel.”
“Ring the bell.”
Oh hell.
I leaned on the buzzer and the door swung open. A wave of nostalgia broke over me, borne on a sensory tide: the twittering pulse of electric ornaments, the soothing sounds of Alvin and the Chipmunks’ Christmas album, the mingled aromas of candy canes and deep-fried turkey.
My mother stepped out from behind the door. She wore one of her usual holiday sweaters (Currier & Ives as dreamed by Timothy Leary), plus a coat-hanger-and-garland halo. The sweater and halo were festooned with a dozen strips of duct tape with wishes scrawled on them in magic marker: “peace in the Holy Land,” “prayer in schools,” “dollar-a-gallon gas”; and a few in my father’s handwriting: “free beer” and “an honest man in Congress.”
“Matthew!” she said, and pulled me in for a hug. When she let go she twirled around for me to see. “How do you like it? I’m a Christmas miracle.”
I groaned and started to loosen my tie. “You didn’t tell me it was a costume party.”
“I said to dress up.”
I sent out a silent prayer that Uncle J.C. brought his hip flask and was up for sharing.
“Mom,” I said, “this is—”
“REBECCA! Oh I’ve so been waiting to meet you, we have so much to talk about . . . .” The words dribbled away as she led Rebecca off toward the kitchen. I took a deep breath and went to find my father.
He was in the den, feeding wood into the fireplace. His costume consisted of a flannel shirt, a Santa hat, and a dead squirrel pinned to his back. Of course: Clark Griswold, from Christmas Vacation.
As the question rose to my lips, I already knew the answer. But I couldn’t keep from asking.
“Where’d you get the squirrel?”
“Backyard. It died of lead poisoning this afternoon.”
Mortification, apparently, kills much more slowly.
Enough was enough. Seamus wanted to launch up from the dentist’s chair and run down the halls, warning the other patients to turn back to save their teeth, tongues, and co-pays. Grizelda and her fellow hygienists were out for blood with devices intended for mining and medieval warfare.
He’d run down the stairs, out the building, and up the street, dental bib flapping in the wind, to the next dentist’s office and the next dentist’s office to spread the news. Droves would follow Seamus on his quest. In time, he’d become the leader of the Dental HMO Revolution. He’d blow the whistle on the likes of Grizelda, her fascist regime, and all those primary care physicians supporting her cruel and unusual escapades in the name of preventing gingivitis.
Masochists would keep the HMO’s afloat, but only for so long. Seamus would instill a new dental procedure—one done with pillows and fairy dust. If a hygienist accidentally hurt their patient at any time, she would apologize, sincerely, and amend her transgression with a tarter-control lollipop. People would leave happy and say, “Thank you, Seamus.” Yes. They’d say this to his smiling picture on the wall in every dentist’s office.
Bronze monuments would be erected to honor the hero Seamus and his Crusade for Better Dental Care. He’d tour universities and visit with heads of state as a touted problem-solving guru. Then, with his free time, he’d fish the streams, lakes, and oceans of the world. He’d mount marlins and sharks on the walls of his Victorian estate as trophies of his mastery as an outdoorsman. Libraries and medical schools would be named in his honor. Parents would name their children after Seamus—Seamus the Great. Yes! And when those children would grow up, they’d tell others of their birth-name blessing and those people would say, “Wooww.”
Yes, he could change the world one mouth at a time. Yet, he couldn’t manage to budge from his recliner. The pain was too great to move faster than slow motion.
[Excerpt from “Gone Fishing” by Daniel Gardina. Thanks for your consideration, Nathan.]
The choices on the playground stink worse than Dad's farts on BBQ night. On the swings, the quiet boy from class (his name is Lyle or Leonard or something) picks a winner from his nose . . . and eats it. Ew. No way am I going over there with him. In fact, I'll probably never swing again.
A group of hot girls pretend to be gold medal gymnasts on the monkey bars. They're easy on the eyes (especially the blonde in the skirt that shows her Hello Kitty underwear every time she swings across), but if I go over there the guys'll think I like girls. Which I do, but, according to my older brother (who's an expert in the Guy Code), I can't admit it until next year in fifth grade.
Captain Awesomeness (a.k.a. Brad Wilson . . . everyone says both names) gives the girls a nod. "Wuzup?" he says as he passes.
The girls giggle and swoon, except Hello Kitty girl. She glares at him, increasing her likeability factor by at least a hundred.
"Whacha lookin at?" Brad Wilson says when he reaches me.
"Whatever I want to," I say.
He glares. "You better watch it."
I raise my eyebrows. "I thought I was."
His eyes say, "if I get you alone you're dead." He marches past.
I didn't want to be his friend anyway. In my past life (before the disaster at my last school), I was Captain Awesomeness. I don't miss it . . . well, not much.
Kitty girl is staring at me . . . and she's not scowling. If it weren't for the Guy Code I'd say something to her. Of course, I'd have to remember how to speak first.
The speech problem is probably why the Code says to ignore her. I start toward the twisty slide but Troy and his over-sized gorilla gang charge over there. Since I don't want my underwear to double as a hat, I turn toward the baseball field.
The prospects aren't much better on this side of the playground.
I was nine years old when my sister gave the gum baby up for adoption. I was pretty clueless about the whole thing, leading up. I mean, not so clueless that I didn’t notice that Ellen was getting fatter and fatter. We shared a room and all. And at night, when she laid in her bed, snoring, which was another new thing about her, in the light that came in the window from the flashing “Munchies” sign on the boardwalk, her stomach just mounded up there under the covers like the soccer field they built on the old landfill on County Rd. It’s still stinky up there, so you have to hold your breath while you play, and Ellen was stinky, too. She farted in her sleep. Another new thing.
I didn’t want to make Ellen feel bad about getting fat, and snoring and tooting, so I told Mom in the car on our way to soccer. I thought she should know. Good thing, Mom knew already. She said that it was all Ellen’s fault for swallowing gum since she was my age. Everyone knows you don’t swallow your gum, that it grows in a big ball in your tummy for seven years. And that’s what happened to Ellen – she just kept swallowing it, and didn’t even tell Mom she was doing it, and then she had this big ball of gum in her stomach, and it was making her gassy, and clogging up her lungs, too.
But I shouldn’t worry, cause in about a month, Ellen was going to the hospital and they were going to take the gum ball out of her. “Just don’t make the same mistake Ellen did,” Mom said. Like I ever would. I did sorta worry about the six Chiclets I swallowed in first grade when Ms. Nolan asked me if I was chewing gum in math. But even if there was a gum ball in my belly, it’d be pretty small, like a marble, and I only fart once in a while. I sucked my tummy in flat all through practice.
“OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
“I’m supposed to touch my toes.”
“With what?”
The dog put one paw over his eyes and limped out of the room on three legs.
Bill peered up at me from knee level. “Yoga is the ancient Eastern art of obtaining balance. To ensure your Yin and Yang compliment each other.”
“Well don’t look now but you’re about to get rug burns on your Yang.”
“Every exercise program has drawbacks.”
“I think you’re supposed to wear clothes.”
About that time, Son Two came through the back door. This kid is 19, and he’s so cool he sweats permafrost. At that moment he had achieved Nirvana and was one with a Klondike bar.
As usual, the cat came in with him, purring around his legs like they were from the same litter.
The Captain snapped into a position that caused his Yin and Yang to become one just as the Klondike bar in turn became one with the floor. My maternal superpowers kicked in and I flung the nearest article of covering, a tasseled blanket from the couch, over the offending object. (Not the ice cream bar.)
This move was interpreted as an invitation by the kitty who, as the instinct of a thousand generations kicked in, sprang into action, claws in attack position, intent on consuming the dancing tassels.
Teaching moments are everywhere. I didn’t know there was a Yoga pose that made cats fly.
I awoke to Mary Lou standing in the doorway. Naked. She had one foot raised behind her on the door jam, her head back and chest thrust out to display her ample assets. A goddess in shades of platinum and gold.
It was the last thing I needed. I couldn't perform. Not before coffee. I should have known better than to marry such a younger woman. Too groggy to move, I stared, feeling the cool wetness under my cheek where I had drooled through the night. My mouth hung open.
"Don't get excited," she said. "I'm just heading out back to sun."
Her husky voice jerked my mind out of its haze like an adrenaline shot to the heart, disappointment rising as I realized she didn't want me. I needed her then more than I'd ever needed any person or substance. Well, maybe not quite any substance. There was that time before I was clean, dying for a fix in Provo, Utah and my only hope a septuagenarian transvestite demanding a unique form of payment…
I closed my mouth and grinned. I would seduce her with my eyes, my words, coax her into bed, prove to her the old man still had it.
"Now darlin'" I said, raising myself on one elbow. Which slipped, and I rolled out of bed and my head hit the bedside table and the glass resting there toppled. It held a thick, brown liquid, and in the eternity it took for me and it to complete our spill I thought: White Russian, Lord how I missed you. But when my tail hit the floor and the drink splashed over my head, I realized it was not my old signature cocktail but chocolate milk. The nearest substitute I allowed myself.
Everything felt sticky. Mary Lou lit a cigarette. Where she had pulled it from, I couldn't imagine.
"Jack, I need to tan, but listen…"
"You're a dadgum walking tumor." I shivered and felt shriveled in my shorts.
"I got a book deal. And you're moving out."
Thanks for a fun contest! Below is an excerpt (299 words) of a spec fic novel that I've been working on. 🙂
—————–
Mariana stopped with her fork half-way to her mouth from her plate and turned pale. "You cannot do this, Calliope; you simply can’t."
The alien named Bob, who had been imitating Mariana, over-shot with the fork and jammed the side of his mouth, making a little whimpering sound.
"Mother, I’m not willfully bucking tradition, and I’m not trying to ruin father’s chances at re-election," said Calliope, peeling the finger appendages of the alien, "Mac," off her sleeve as he had been feeling the fabric of her dress. She placed his hands on the table in front of him.
"Sweet Calliope," said Jornas in what he hoped was his most tender fatherly voice. "I know how you must be feeling. I was once a rebellious young person."
The third alien, who had told Jornas that they were his descendents, nodded as though he were delivering a sermon, and tapped a bunch of buttons on her instrument.
Mariana muttered, "oh, right." Bob-alien leaned toward Mariana to hear what she said and fell to the floor with a clatter. The maid-bots rolled silently into the room. They picked Bob up, placed him sideways into his chair, and cleaned the floor beneath him.
"However, your marrying someone for love, and someone not compatible with our standing, is not something your mother and I can allow."
Calliope threw her napkin down and stood up abruptly. "OW!" she yelped. Mac had started to examine her intricate braid and still had his hand in her hair. Tears welled in her eyes. "I thought you would support me, father." She ran out of the room.
Jornas pushed his chair back, but Mariana gripped his arm to stop him from getting up. Bob-alien extended his tentacle-like arm across the table and placed his hand on Jornas’ arm too.
Have you ever seen a twenty-pound cat try to fit into a shoebox? Truthfully, it's all in the approach. Let's take Cam's shoebox as our example.
Cam excitedly approaches our cat, while proclaiming the existence of a new box. He sets the box on the floor. "Simba, I have a box for you." Obligingly, the cat lumbers over to see what the fuss is all about. Upon discovering a new item made out of his all-time favorite material, cardboard, Simba begins his investigation.
Said investigation commences with a sniff and a slow walk about the perimeter to gauge the dimensions. He next nibbles the corners. He must really like this box. The face rub follows. The face rub means possession, as in, "This box is now mine, oh simple human." For Simba, the box has become his whole world.
Our small family gathers to witness a kooky tabby in action as he gracefully hops into his shoebox. We cheer when he sits, tap-dancing with front paws, because we know what's coming next. Yes, a twenty-pound tabby can fit into a shoebox, and Simba is about to prove it.
Simba tucks his paws, and lays down, contorting himself in the process. Comfort is not a factor of this conquest. He achieves his goal, even if that means key parts of his furry-awesomeness lap over the edges of the now-stretched shoebox. Cam's shoebox has been successfully repurposed, and the world is a better place, at least until tommorow brings more cardboard.
I wonder what Simba will do with two shoeboxes?
This is an excerpt from my thriller INCORRUPTIBLE. Enjoy!
Jenna opened her eyes to make sure her bedroom door was still closed. She felt like someone was watching her, like she just discovered that there really was a Big Brother videotaping her every move and recording her every thought. And in this case Big Brother just so happened to be whatever it was floating in the realm of heaven, ready to judge her after death with a less than complimentary record of her life.
8:07:15 AM: Jenna questions whether God really exists.
8:07:16 AM: Jenna pushes giant turd into toilet.
Stop being paranoid, she thought, but a voice in her mind filled her with unease.
"You'd better worry girlie. Mary can pop into your life whenever she wants. No one else can see her, right? That's because she can't get enough of you. Don't start doubting her. What would happen then?"
Jenna pictured the apostle Thomas who needed to stick his fingers into the wounds of Christ in order to believe.
"Blessed are those who have not seen and believed," the Bible said. She had the benefit of seeing and hearing Mary though. She saw the Mother of God wearing a suit of something that looked like real flesh and blood. What happened was improbable but not impossible. She was sure of that.
She just hoped that God didn't think she sucked as much as she thought she did.
“Oh my god,” Christine said with a loud groan. Her co-workers eyes flicked away from their computer screens, and she read the offending sentence, keeping her voice emotionless. “‘Oh yeah. Right there. Just like that baby.’”
“Oh no!” The ensuing groans matched Christine’s.
Monique cried out with mock despair, shaking her hands up at the skies, “Commas save sex scenes, people!” Then she lowered her hands and plopped her chin into one of them, her eyes returning to the manuscript in front of her. “Who do you have, by the way?”
“Brittan Gold.”
“Gross. She’s like a friggin’ Wookiee when it comes to direct address. I had her last manuscript. What was it? Like Song of the Wolf or something?”
“No, Howl of the Wolf, I think.”
“Oh yeah! With those hybrid wolf-zombie-shifter-things, right?”
“Okay,” Janine said, peeping her head around her screen to address Christine, her glasses slipping down her nose. “What is the rule on shape-shifter sex scenes again? Are they allowed to be all the way shifted? Or is it still only partial-shiftings because if so, there are some questionable activities going on over here.”
“Unfortunately, shifters are now allowed to be in complete animal form when they get it on.”
“Like…fully shifted and furry and stuff?”
Christine nodded once, solemn.
“Even if the non-shifter is not…?”
Christine nodded again.
“Ew!” Janine said and then darted back behind her screen. “I’ve got a lot of comments to delete then.”
“Are you reading that new Sage Hushchild we just got?” Monique asked. “She has the grossest sex in hers. And it’s always wolf-shifters. She never does anything else. I want to be like, ‘Sage, listen, go to the zoo. There are hundreds of animals you can choose from. Just get creative or something.”
“Oh my god,” Christine said, her eyes lighting up. “Someone needs to an exotic bird-shifter series.”
“Yes!” Monique squealed. “With flamingo-shifters and toucan-shifters. And the hero’s all, ‘My bright feathers will seduce you, m’lady,’ and then he flies off over the rain forest with her.”
Long time reader, first time commenter.
I was 13 miles into a marathon I’d only trained up to 17 miles for, and hating every minute of it. My right knee flashed pain with every bend, and I was slowing up. I — and everyone around me — wore a permanent scowl.
But one person wasn’t feeling down.
“Halfway there runners, you all look great!”
Oh no.
“Only 13 miles to go — you’re almost there!”
Please stop.
“Pick up your pace everyone!”
Even though the crowd of well-wishers was small, I couldn’t find the source of these cheers. Then I saw a short, large woman sitting in a blue folding chair next to the 13.1 miles sign. On the right side of the chair was a plastic bottle of soda bursting from the chair’s cup holder. The woman clapped her hands with the rhythm of the yells, smiling all the while.
“Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!”
She had a friendly face, like you might find on a kindergarten teacher explaining a particularly vexing subtraction problem. No Jimmy, the answer is five. Five! As she bobbed in her chair more and more energetically, it looked like she might be able to make her way out of it. But, no, between yells she inhaled and leaned back into the mesh.
I was almost beside her. I was limping worse as time went on, and regretted passing the first aid tent without stopping a mile back. The pain was getting horrific.
I locked eyes with her. Her mouth opened into a large, frenzied grin.
“You can push through the pain! Run through it! THE PAIN ISN’T THERE!” She leaned out of her chair with that last exhortation, pointing and wagging an index finger that looked like one of those miniature carrots that's been out of the bag too long.
I’m going to snap.
I thought of those tragic headlines you sometimes see: “Marathon kills woman” This would be during a marathon, it just wouldn’t be from running it. Only a two letter difference, though.“Marathoner kills woman.”
An excerpt from my WIP. Edgar has joined a platoon of superhero children:
—–
“My name’s Siren, and I’ve got supersonic screams,” said one girl.
“That’s a pretty good superpower,” said Edgar.
“And I’m BB Dude,” said another boy. “Demolitions expert.”
“That’s good, too,” said Edgar. “But why are you called BB Dude?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “That’s my thing,” he said. “That’s my–all my bombs are shaped like basketballs and baseballs and stuff. Look.” He hefted a perfect replica of a baseball, his thumb pressed firmly on an unlit fuse. When Edgar failed to comment, he added, “I have a catchphrase. Whenever I drop a bomb, I say, ‘That’s one slam–that’s a slam dunk!’ ”
“So what’s your superpower?” asked Siren.
Edgar frowned for a moment: the truth of the matter was that he hadn’t discovered it yet. He had tried fight and flight, lifting boulders and running on water. He had pressed himself against red walls in order to soak in a new color like a chameleon–and pushed against walls in order to pass through. He tried to conjure a superpower out of the air by merely naming it–lightning power! firebreath!–to no avail. So when some nosy busybody asked what his superpower was, he simply responded like this: “Oh, I’m a master swordsman. This is my sword, the Durandal–” and then he whipped out the blade and did some special move. “And if I beat anyone with my sword, I get their powers, too.”
“That’s cheating,” said another boy, dark-eyed and skinny, whose name was Loop.
“No, it’s not,” said Edgar, turning back to glower at him. “All you do is stop other people’s powers. That’s cheating.”
“Superpower nullification is a single, isolated ability,” said Loop. “Getting other people’s powers is like asking a genie for more wishes.”
“You’re no superhero. You’re a regular unsuperhero, a mega-anti-hero,” said Eddie.
And so they fought.
Oral Porter fished two slices of bread from the no-name brand bag. He dropped them into the slots of his mother’s toaster, once the newest thing in the entire house, and poked at the touch screen to start it.
“Ouch! Watch where you stick that finger!”
Oral froze. He could never forget that voice. “Pong? I thought I deleted you!”
“Interesting conclusion, but no. We’re software – ever try to erase spam on your computer? We’re tougher than spam. Spam to the 10th power of tough.”
“Why are you inside my toaster?”
“We were demoted,” cut in Ping, “but thank you for asking. We have been copied into this earthly machine and sent to live among the savages.”
“That’s you,” added Pong.
“They stuck you down here? With me?” Just when he thought life couldn’t get any worse.
“It’s all your fault, Porter,” wailed Pong. “All your bloody fault.” The toaster went silent. Oral gaped, speechless. He took a closer look at the display screen, where two tiny toast icons – one white and one black – appeared. “Is that how you really look?”
“We have been confined to this tiny ship with strict quarantine coding – we cannot transfer anywhere else,” said Ping. “And this on-board graphics processor is extremely limited.” He lowered his voice. “Do I appear sufficiently threatening to you?” The white toast jiggled aggressively.
“Threatening?” Oral thought about it for a moment. It was probably safer to have them where he could keep an eye on them. “Oh yes, very…threatening. Humans are quite frightened by…bread, and… baked goods. In general.”
“Good,” Ping sniffed. “We are the superior race, after all.”
“Thank you for the reminder.”
“Not at all. Now, how do you fly this thing?”
Paul
This is from my WIP MG novel:
Most kids didn’t like Hilarie. She was not very nice. But most kids tried to be friends with her because it was worse if you didn’t.
She started all the most horrible rumors, made faces at Mrs. Felter behind her back, and was an expert at getting kids into trouble.
Hilarie got Mark Mendes expelled from science lab because she told Mrs. Felter he was licking the frogs.
She got Alexander Green sent to the principal’s office for shouting at her. She had poked him with her finger exactly twenty-seven times, (just to see how many pokings it would take to get him to lose it. Twenty-seven.)
She also excelled in breaking up friendships. One time, Hilarie told Cara Capelli that her best friend Teeney Friedman was only friends with her because her mother made her. She told Teeney that Cara called her stupid and told everyone Teeney still sucked her thumb.
It was best to stay on Hilarie’s good side.
Thursday morning Quentin and Daniel walked up to the Media Center where Silver usually hung out before first bell. At first, Daniel didn’t see her anywhere. Then he saw her sitting up against the wall with her knees folded up in front of her and a book propped on them. She was wearing a red hoodie with the hood up. Daniel recognized the book as one of those Japanese graphic novels that you have to read backwards.
“Hey, Silver,” said Quentin as they walked up.
“What?” Silver scowled.
“Let’s just go,” he said to Daniel, starting to turn away.
“No, wait,” said Daniel, grabbing Quentin’s arm. To Silver he said, “We’ll be at the library after school if you’re still interested.”
Silver snapped her gum and stared at them. It was amazing how sometimes just a look from her could make you feel like you’ve been slapped in the face.
“Okay, well, we’ll see you later, then,” said Daniel.
“Whatever,” she mumbled. She turned sideways and opened up her book again.
Daniel and Quentin started toward the band room.
“She is cold, man,” said Quentin once they were out of earshot. “Frosty. Are you sure we want her in on this?”
“I think we just caught her off guard,” said Daniel. “This is her territory. She probably didn’t want to be seen talking to us in front of her friends.”
“Friends?” said Quentin, snickering. They both looked back. The kid sitting next to Silver was covered head to toe in black and chains, and could have been male or female. Or animal or vegetable, for that matter, thought Daniel. A kid with spiky blue hair and a pink ballerina skirt was pacing back and forth and holding her MP3 player right in front of her face like she was in a trance or something. Another kid had hair and skin (and clothes) so pale that he blended perfectly into the off-white cinderblock walls like milky camouflage. He moved slightly just then or they never would have seen him. Quentin and Daniel looked at each other and just started cracking up.
(Dark Mistress is Diana Geller)
At Chihuahuas Without Borders headquarters, Gracelyn Maude Hearl was sitting at her desk and stroking Maverick’s patchy fur. As she did, she caught a whiff of urine from the little dog’s preemie diaper. But at the moment her attention was focused on something more important.
It was a problem with “CWB: The Series,” their TV show filming somewhere in the blasted, treeless plains of Mongolia. They were supposed to be giving dogs to needy, grateful native families, but two weeks ago, the Chihuahuas started dying. They lost one when a native dog galloped over and ate one for dinner. Another tried to go all Rambo on a marmot, and lost. One more froze to death when the translator bartered its red Chihuahua sweater for booze. They found vultures at work on the little doggie Popsicle in the morning, shredding flesh away from his carcass. They lost another dog, named Chardonnay, to a fatal Yak kick.
On top of all that, a local TV news station ran a segment on the “suspicious deaths.”
Gracelyn Maude told her producers to film some happily-ever-after video to garner a little good PR. But the first family had bartered their dog for a sheep, the second family couldn’t be found, and the third simply pointed at the barbecue spit.
Maverick was getting restless, so she let him down. He scampered across the floor, wrapped his twiggy legs around one of her fuzzy slippers, and began humping it. Gracelyn Maude watched enviously, trying to recall the last time someone had humped her with that kind of ardor … probably not since Bible camp.
Gracelyn Maude bellowed, “Cyrena!”
Her assistant, Cyrena, appeared in the doorway holding a steno pad. Gracelyn Maude jabbed a pudgy, bejeweled finger at the dog-on-slipper sex scene on the floor. “When Maverick’s finished he’s gonna need a change.”
Cyrena cast a baleful glance at Maverick, his face scrunched in ecstasy as his tiny thrusting hips scooched the slipper across the floor. “I ain’t cleanin’ up no doggie jizz.”
“Aw, just put on some dish gloves and throw him in the sink.”
None of my WIPs had anything that fit the bill, so I wrote this for the contest. I hope you enjoy it!
——————–
Bartholomew Ophelia Treebottom IV was bored. He swung his legs, heels banging in time with the bonging of the clock tower. Bored…Bored…Bored…
Tuesday was always a boring day. It was the day his parents reserved for their weekly trip to the taxidermist’s shop. His father was a world-renowned specialist in stuffed dead tarantulas, and was always on the lookout for a new specimen. His mother accompanied him, because the taxidermist’s wife made excellent omelettes. Bartholomew never went; dead tarantulas were boring.
Just then his neighbor Mandy tripped by, her eyes gleaming. “I’m breaking into the haunted Whaley House.” She cocked her head. “Want to come?”
Bartholomew considered. Haunted houses never really were. They were always just full of old junk. And dust. Dust made him sneeze. Bartholomew hopped down. “Alright, then.”
The door was locked, but the window opened easily, so they clambered in. It reeked of rot, and Bartholomew gagged. The room was covered in an inch-thick layer of dust, and stringy cobwebs stretched from corner to corner. His father would have loved to see the spider that had woven those webs. Bartholomew reached out to touch one, when a loud moan rolled down from upstairs.
Surprised, he fell forward, grabbing at the web – which was much more rope-like than he had expected – and bringing it, and a nearby lamp, crashing down. The lamp snagged on the curtains, which tore from their rod and landed with a whump upon Bartholomew, setting off a sneezing fit as he flailed about in a frantic attempt to free himself. Mandy screamed. Bartholomew jerked his head free just in time to see Mandy, covered in fake cobwebs and stuffed tarantulas, careening backwards into and over the side of an overstuffed armchair, upsetting a basket of something that, Bartholomew belatedly realized, looked like eggs. Peals of cackling laughter drifted in from the hallway.
As he sat, rumpled curtains hanging from his shoulders, rotten egg dripping down his forehead and off his chin, it occurred to Bartholomew that his parents, and Tuesdays, were not as boring as he had thought.
I was finished!
I was always too late or too afraid of failure, too tired or just plain forgetful, but this time, I'd done it.
I read through the short draft for the fourth time, intending to do at least another four rounds of that. It was ok. It was better than ok. It was good. I swirled around the last dregs of coffee that lurked in the bottom of my cup and chucked them back.
Minutes later I had changed my coffee stained T-shirt and jeans (there had been more dregs than I'd realised and my aim was clearly as good as my eyesight) anyway I raced down the steps, two at a time. That of course was my second mistake and infinitely more frightening than the first, I'd never feared actually drowning in the coffee after all.
I picked myself up from the floor and dusted myself down. I'd have bruises but so what? All the cool cats had a bruise or two, maybe not a limp and a dodgy hip (now) but we live and learn, right?
I headed back to my study, hands actually trembling in anticipation with what awaited me there. I could see the event horizon right before my eyes; glory, acclaim, admiration, a fantastic dress I'd designed for just such an occasion.
The chair was already pulled out from my desk so I moved towards it quickly. Obviously I missed the puddle on the floor, from the coffee incident, and slipped suddenly, tumbling catastrophically until I grabbed a handful of curtain. My upholstery skills are on par with my agility and accuracy, therefore I ripped them from their inferior casings and fell face first into my umbrella plant. It was recently pruned so it could've been worse.
Slowly and very carefully, as even for me this was pushing it, I edged back towards my computer. One more proofread and I'd send it off, otherwise it seemed likely I might not survive long enough to do that.
"What?" I screamed, reading through the rules.
Entrants 14 to 189? No exceptions?
Sod it!
From the opening of my MG novel-in-progress:
When Fergal Clearie was born, near Dublin, Ireland, he created a new category in The Guinness Book of World Records: The Biggest Baby Bum. Like a pair of basketballs was the tiny lad’s rump, on his otherwise normal body. His angelic face was but a fraction of the size of one fanny cheek. His mother, Sheela, first gaped, then gasped, and finally grasped the enormity of her son. His father, Ennis, first froze, then fainted, and finally fled from his wife and odd son.
Three years later, on the floor of the Clearies' Dublin flat, little Fergal sang a lively melody with nonsense words while bouncing upon his gigantic bum. Each bounce created a tuneful toot, like a saxophone playing from his butt. His mammy chuckled while she sewed extra-wide-bottomed trousers for Fergal. The door knocker interrupted the happy scene.
“Fergal, darlin’, we have a visitor,” Mammy announced, in a voice that sounded unnaturally flat to Fergal's musical ear. "A toy seller, it seems."
Fergal stood up slowly, on account of his hefty hiney. His long, wavy, red bangs flopped against his forehead. He pushed the hair out of his eyes to see the visitor who had dissolved Mammy's smile. An odd-looking man, with thick black eyebrows and pale blonde hair. Crooked-looking hair. And a matching blonde moustache above a square chin coated, it seemed, with black pepper.
The visitor, wearing a handwritten sticker that said “Toys for Boys, Inc.” on his wrinkled, grease-stained jacket, gaped at him. “Such a handsome lad, you are!” whispered the man. His eyes were sparkling blue, like Fergal’s.
Mammy glared at the man. She shook her head, and then clucked her tongue. “So yer glad ta see him, are ya’… ENNIS?”
Her disguised former husband blushed like a child caught tossing Brussels sprouts to the dog under the table. Sheela rolled her eyes. “Aye, Ennis, he's an extraordinary lad. Taller sittin’ than standin’, he is, on account of his BIG, BEAUTIFUL, BLESSED BEHIND!” She balled her hands on her broad hips, and smiled defiantly.
Fergal's eyes twinkled. “Big, beautiful, blessed behind,” he sang, while simultaneously tooting a string of perfectly pitched, vibrato-filled notes from his tuneful tush: E-G-A-D. He proudly wiggled his hiney at his Da.
************
Being the star pitcher of my high school baseball team had its perks, but on the day after a game my sore shoulder muscles had me considering switching to soccer.
I changed from my school clothes to gym shorts when I got to the field house and went straight to the trainer’s room and laid face down on the table. Maybe I could catch a short nap before Roy, the assistant trainer, came in.
The door opened and a female voice said, “Roy’s sick today, Coach asked me to work on your shoulder.
I flipped over and nearly had a coronary. I’d never seen a female in the locker room, but wasn’t going to complain. The pretty young student teacher walked towards me as I closed my gaping mouth and dove to my stomach. I grinned as I thought to myself – wait until I tell the guys.
She put her bare hands on my shoulders and went to work. She wasn’t as strong as Roy, but who cared because — damn, she smelled good.
And I liked what she was doing. I liked it so much that I turned my head towards her long legs and imagined what it would be like to touch them. Then I thought about what it would feel like to pull her down on top of me.
Hmm…my little fantasy was getting better and better. As I was plotting the ending to my daydream I felt my breaths coming faster and then – holy crap – I realized it was too late.
My body went stiff on the table and my eyes flew open. Damn, I could be such an idiot. I hit the table with my fist and said, “Shit.” The teacher took her hands away and at the same moment, Coach Burk came in and said, “Son, we need you at the front to measure your inseam for the uniforms we’re having custom made.
Holy shit, my body had just grown an extra tent pole – what could I do?
I rolled to the floor, clenched myself into a ball and yelled – “food poising”.
*************
Errors and Omissions, a Funny Story
During a non-psychotic break, Alice observed the head doctors tripping. Poor lost souls who had fallen down the rabbit hole, they’d evidently forgotten the subtle logic of their hearts, so trapped in frantic mind games devoid of reality, and what is worse, they’d forgotten to check the facts. Alice smiled and sipped a cup of tea with the Cheshire Cat. As usual, the Cheshire Cat smiled in return.
Alice scratched her head. Perhaps the Cheshire Cat knew more than she. Smiling might be the only logical response to nonsense. Alice smiled while the head-tripping head doctors tripped, stumbled and fell, now five levels down the rabbit hole. Always curious, Alice peered into the ever-widening space, down five levels of the rabbit hole. The Cheshire Cat remained in his chair, sipping his tea, complacent and smiling. But Alice could not resist the temptation to stare and take notes.
What? The Red Queen, now on a rampage, chasing the tripping head doctors with potions and wielding her silver baton like a sword. “Off with your heads,” she shrieked. Alice sighed and looked back at her tea party companion, the Cheshire Cat. The Cat still smiled. Alice sighed. Then suddenly, so abruptly, the Cheshire Cat opened a door he created in thin air. The Mad Hatter entered. The Mad Hatter accepted a cup of tea from the Cheshire Cat and gulped it down, wiping his lips with a brisk brush of his hand, then motioned to Alice to sit down with her companions. Alice sighed. She returned to her chair and smiled like the Cheshire Cat.
“So you now see,” the Mad Hatter announced like a professor.
From WIP, memoir. word count:345
With spring’s early arrival, John and I decide it’s time to get some outdoor work done. Our first stop is the garden. He grabs a hoe to turn the dirt while I attack the nearby weeds. He is in mid-swing when suddenly he jumps, dropping the hoe.
“What is it?” I ask sensing a bit of panic.
“I think it was a bee”, he explains.
“Did it sting you?”
“No, but I might have just gotten in its way. There are a few beehives not far from here.”
Looking at my worried expression, he reassures me, “But stay calm. If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.”
“Okay”, I reply and hesitantly go back to pulling weeds.
John picks up his hoe again, but drops it immediately with a cry, “Oww! It stung me!”
He inspects his arm and then suddenly starts jerking to the left and right; he bobs and weaves like a boxer in training, swatting at the angry buzzing in the air.
Within seconds, a swarm of bees is upon us. Now, both of us are darting up and down swatting the buzzing air.
“Run, Lynn, run!” He screams.
“What?” I ask since I can hardly hear over the noise.
“Run! Get inside the house!” John cries as he bolts past me. He strips off his sweatshirt while galloping at full speed and uses it to swat the bees away. I take off steps after him with a cloud of bees right behind us. We hurdle over a fence and charge up the hill; the house and safety is within sight.
“Arrgg!” I scream as I lose my battle against a bee in my t-shirt. It has stung arm and is still buzzing angrily. We reach the house, swing the door open, and slam it behind us. Panting like dogs, we shake out our clothes. John hears a buzzing in his t-shirt, jerks around, and rips it off. The bee falls to the ground and he stomps on it with a resounding “boom!”
“I might have been mistaken,” he says sheepishly.
After a long and grueling battle against an enemy organization called Janus, our lovable heroes go down a secret tunnel slide and arrive at the door to their grand destination. One of them was invited to this grand event.
==============
The door was imposing. It wasn’t even a pair of doors, like the forbidding kind, but it was large and cedar, and with a title in embossed letters: The Conference Chamber.
Evelyn jiggled the doorknob. Instead of opening, more letters appeared across the door’s shaved surface, enough to complete an alphabet soup. They rearranged themselves.
Welcome to the Conference Chamber. Please state your name and country.
“My name is Felix Jernegan, United States of America, but no longer affiliated. Open the door.”
The letters stirred into a cloud, then shuffled.
I’m sorry, but that name is not on our list. Please try again.
“Felix Jernegan. That’s J-E-R-N-E-G-A-N.”
I’m sorry, but—
“Give me options, will you?” Felix snapped.
The door graciously conceded.
If you are an invited guest, say ‘one.’
“One,” said Felix.
If you have fallen into the slide by accident and lost your way, say ‘two.’
“I said ‘one,’ you stupid door!”
“Maybe you weren’t invited,” said Evelyn.
If you are a member of Janus, say ‘three.’
“Let’s say that,” said Skyler.
Felix rattled the door. The letters scattered for a second, as if jarred by his indignant rattling, before they regrouped once more.
Thank you for your patience, Mr. Phoenix Mulligan. Have a nice day.
It added a tart Goodbye.
“That’s it,” said Felix, drawing his saber. “I’m turning this door into kindling.”
Skyler pushed him back. “Let me handle this.”
They couldn’t tell what he did—or said—exactly, but soon enough, Skyler turned to them with a pleasant smile and the door swung open without further encouragement. Felix gave it the finger before they stepped into the Conference Chamber.
They call me little brown boy, but I'm not brown. I'm blacker than anyone in that school-
"Whoa whoa whoa. Wait one minute bro. Why are you telling this story? It ain't your story. Besides, I'm white, and this is my story."
"Is too! Mom said it was my story!"
"It ain't. You ain't goin' to jail for somthin' your homie did."
"No, I watched him do it and testified for my brother."
"I ain't your real bro."
"Adopted brother, then."
"That still don't make it your story."
"Would you quit talking like a gangster? Mom doesn't like it."
"Oh, no, she likes your good English and your pretty French."
"Just because you're adopted doesn't mean you have to hate me. And your English and your French could sound the way mine does if you'd stop trying to act tough. We went to the same school."
"Whatever."
"Anyways, this story is about two racially different brothers and how they hate each other.""We don't hate each other."
"Ok. What is it then?"
"Um. Hate's a strong word, you know! It's just a deep dislike."
A woman’s scream torpedoed through the sky With a large ‘plop,’ she landed, on her ample belly, in front of the brothers.
“Ello!” she said as she blew a hunk of hair from her mouth. She was up on her hands and knees now. “Blimey, where am I?”
“Realm of Yellowwood.” Cody answered.
“That can’t be right. I’m—I should be in the city—at University—you know, lots of lights, cars, beep-beep—horns, telly’s blaring. I could really use a cup of coffee.” Her hands came to rest on her hips and she huffed again. “Where’s the Starbucks?”
“No Starbucks! Only woods,” Cody said.
“Well, I can see that.” She looked around. “It’s very—quiet here.”
“Was very quiet.” Cody whispered to Austin.
“What’s your name, ma’am?” Austin asked.
“Are you highwaymen. What are you doing out in the forest alone at night?” She moved closer to her suitcase. “You’ve got weapons.” She added as if she had just noticed.
Jesse stepped forward. “My name’s Jesse and these are my brothers, Cody and Austin, and you are?”
“Portentia Meriweather.” She spit it out as a challenge. “If you’re not highway men, why do you have weapons?”
“As my brother said, you are in Yellowwood Forest.” Jesse quietly said.
“No, he didn’t. He tootin did not! I distinctly heard him say I was in a realm.”
“A realm is a territory and this forest is the territory of Yellowwood. What city were you looking for?”
She pulled a wadded, stained paper from her blouse.
“Bother, the ink is running. It was wet coming over the pond you know.” She lit her wand and held it to the wrinkled paper. “Elm and Wood? No, Elm and Fellow? Oh, I don’t know. I’m supposed to teach at University and I have to be there for a meeting in one hour.”
“What pond did you cross? Do you mean Lake Lemon?” Cody asked.
“Lake Lemon? No! You know, THE pond. The one between England and America,” she blustered.
“The Atlantic Ocean? You flew all the way across the Atlantic ocean?” Cody nearly hyperventilated.
A scene from my soon to be released multimedia memoir…
The dictionary, for all its usefulness, sometimes doesn’t tell you the whole story. Take the word sneaky, for instance. The dictionary fails to note exactly how much fun it can be. I’m not condoning crime, but a bit of mischief is perfectly healthy—a discovery I made at an early age.
One day in Kindergarten, I slipped out of my chair with all the stealth of a leopard on the African plains. (Well, maybe not so much—I’ve seen time-lapse video of a leopard taking all night to close in on a herd of gazelles.) As I snaked face-first across the floor, I stopped occasionally to turn my head up and hold my index finger to my mouth. I needn’t have worried–my fellow students were just as bored as I was, so they weren’t going to tattle. On I went. The sight of my teacher’s legs came and went in between the legs of students, chairs, and tables. When she turned around, I stopped moving, my face hovering just millimeters off the floor. As every little kid knows, if I couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see me. I was invisible.
The stalk continued once she turned to the board again. How I knew she wasn’t looking anymore I couldn’t say; some children are just naturals in the classroom. My friend Albert, my prey, was leaning forward on his chair, making for a perfect target. From two chairs away, I lunged and found my mark, jabbing him in the rear pocket of his navy blue uniform pants with the point of a pencil. I laughed maniacally as he sprung off his seat with a yelp. My teacher snapped to attention, and I knew I was doomed. I was a kamikaze pilot, with no escape plan. But the laughter echoing through the room made it all worthwhile. If the hiring committee at RPG only knew what kind of man they’d hired to teach their children…
"Without Rain There Can Be No Rainbows" A Teacher's Journey to a Maori Village Launched by the Death of his Dog.
A bit later the doorbell rang. I sat up at the tumbling-thumping sounds of sock-feet in the hallway.
Dustin swung open my bedroom door and whistled like a slide whistle. “Man!” he said. “You gonna be okay?”
Casey came in behind him. “Yeah, your leg looks like one of those rockets they strap to the bottom of the space shuttle.”
“Ain’t as bad as it looks,” I said with a shrug. “So, you guys wanna sign my cast?”
“You’re gonna let us sign your cast? Cool!” Dustin picked up the marker.
“I can practice my autograph,” jumped Casey, who was always practicing his autograph. “I gotta perfect it for when I become the best shortstop in the history of the majors.”
“Better than Barry Larkin?”
“Of course. My autograph could beat Larkin’s any old day of the week!”
Dustin and I grabbed our stomachs and burst out laughing. Then Dustin said, “He might be right, though. You seen his trading card collection?”
“Every last one signed, right?”
“Yep. But if you look close, all the signatures are the same. They all read ‘Casey Albright!’”
This time Casey laughed with us. “It looks more genuine to sign a baseball card than it does to sign your math notebook. I can’t help that they haven’t made any cards with me on them yet.”
Dustin squiggled in his name on the top of my foot. Casey streaked his across my shin, above my dad’s name. I leaned forward for a closer look. “Thanks, guys.”
Recapping the marker, Casey said, “Keep that thing and you’ll be rich one day.”
Dustin smiled. “Yeah, cause of my name!”
Tell me if this has ever happened to you. It’s the first day of your fifth year of high school. You ask yourself, “How could I let this happen again?” I ask myself the same question, and I realize that I didn’t let this happen on my own. I had help from Bristol Palin, the ABC network, and the Tea Party.
Because of “Dancing with the Stars” and every conservative in America, I am repeating the 12th grade. I know what you’re thinking: Don’t blame the Republicans just because the Democrats did. Who else voted to keep Bristol Palin on the show after that disastrous jive in a gorilla costume? Jane Goodall?
Week after week, I watched that teen mom waltz, rumba, and paso doble (whatever that is) her way to the bottom of the pile and still make it to the finals. Instead of reading the CliffNotes version of Macbeth, I watched Bristol Palin make a mockery of the musical Chicago.
The season finale was months ago, and I still can’t tell you what made me tune in each week. Bristol Palin’s long brown hair? Her curvy figure? Her fiscal conservativeness? She was one hot mess shimmy shaking her way across my TV screen every Monday night (live) and every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday because I recorded it.
My first senior year went by in a blur of sequins and spandex. This year, however, I am capital D determined to graduate. As my twice-divorced father told me, “Your fifth year of high school is like my third marriage. You better make it work.”
Graduation is not an option. Neither is living in my parent’s house next year. I’ve got three choices after I receive my diploma: Get a job, join the army, or go to college preferably one with “state” in the name and not “community.”
It’s time for me to get serious, memorize the periodic table, and stop confusing the Wright brothers and the Righteous brothers. Bristol Palin can just cha-cha-cha her way out of my second senior year. I have chemicals to remember.
How do you know if a girl likes you? Not likes you like she wants to talk about movies or the best Clash songs or share your French fries at the diner. But likes you like she wants to see you with your shirt off and call you in the middle of the night and tell you how much that awesome David Bowie song makes her think of you.
It’s very possible she doesn’t like me that way. She makes fart jokes and snorts when she laughs, and she orders giant, messy burgers and eats them in front of me without shame. Girls don’t do that when they like you, right? But maybe Lyla is different. Maybe she does want to stick her tongue in my mouth as well as sing karaoke "London Calling" in my basement.
I haven’t told Lyla about my theory yet. I want to, but if she likes me in that way (the way I want her to) then she may spit out her coffee and abandon ship, and if she doesn’t like me that way but really cares about me in the friendship way, she may feel obligated to have a special conversation with my mother about this really nice mental hospital in Tucson that she read about on the internet. (In my
mind, Lyla knows way too much about plush mental hospitals.)
I try to imagine the conversation. Hey, guess what, Lyla? Remember when we were talking about past lives? About you wishing your best life was still yet to come? (God that was deep. And cute. So unbelievably cute). Well, my best life is almost certainly behind me. How can I ever top E=mc²? Not to mention the atomic bomb! Although, yes, I agree, that was kind of shitty.
At least the dude felt bad about it. And I feel bad about it, which matters because, Lyla–adorable, smart, sweet, cool, Lyla–I was Albert Einstein. At least I’m pretty sure I was.
I hear Tucson is a nice place to visit.
–Alison Coffey
Angela Brown here to give this the old college try 🙂
MG story in concept mode – Mallory’s Teachable Moments
Submission: 344 word count
“I did it mama! Come look and see.” I was in my room, holding a perfect back bend. I hoped she’d hurry up from the kitchen. My arms were shaking.
“What is it now Mal – oh – well, look at you. Not giving up paid off.” She smiled down at me just as my arms gave out. It was okay. All my practicing made it a good idea to put pillows under me so falling wouldn’t hurt.
“Let me try it,” she said, dusting flour handprints all over her apron.
I didn’t think it was a good idea, but teachable moment #3 meant I had to stay quiet. It wasn’t a kid’s place to tell grown ups what to or not to do. A few bones cracked as she lay flat. She got her hands above her head, pressed her palms against the floor, and struggled up, moving as slow as the inch worm I found the other day.
“Any…second…now…” She grunted, trembling, but she was only half way up. When I had a hard time, she always encouraged me, so that gave me an idea.
“You can do it,” I said, giving her my best smile. “Besides, I heard daddy tell you that all your sweet meat was the softest in the world. At least it won’t hurt if you fall.
And fall she did. She flopped to the ground, arms and legs flying all around as she scrambled to her feet. She rubbed her hands down her apron over and over again and I swear her cheeks looked like Aunt Matilda got a hold of them.
“I don’t know how you heard that but –” She slapped her hand over her mouth, turned and shot out my room. Laughter and an “Oh my God” drifted down to me from the kitchen.
I quickly got my little book, flipping through the pages until I found it: Teachable moment #14: never, ever, no matter what, repeat what you overhear. Then I scribbled an extra note: Especially about dad and how he likes mama’s sweet meat.
Like most kids his age, Lester possessed the vague understanding that chubby boys with glasses weren’t supposed to be popular, and yet here was B.J., standing before the class, basking in the reverence of his peers. Lester began to wonder if going immediately after B.J. was such a good idea.
“My poem title is Sexy BeeJay.” stated B.J. He had magnetic personality and a heavy Korean accent and blossoming self-image, and these things together had served him well in life. Lester found himself wishing for an accent of some kind.
B.J. breathed an exaggerated breath and began to read. His voice assaulted the class in a harsh and halting chant, as though channeling at once the restless spirits of Tupac Shakur and some washed-up beat poet. His shoulders dipped and rolled with the words. Lester looked across the room, and watched as the class followed B.J.’s performance in rapt silence.
When I am old
All girls will love B.J. Kim
I will live in a big house
With fancy BMWs
I will rap at my partys
I will be a worldfamus raper
When I am old
I will drive BMWs
Roling on the street
With the top down
And girls will screem
SEXY BeeJay!!! SEXY BeeJay!!!
B.J. looked up and exhaled loudly.
Several kids cheered, and from the back of the room Trevor bellowed his appreciation, but Lester ignored the plaudits. He couldn’t help but feel pleased. His poem was much better than B.J.’s.
“Very interesting, B.J.,” Mrs. Wilson said as the applause died down, “Of course, you’re missing a very important letter in that poem. You realize the word ‘rapper’ has two P’s?”
“Oh,” said B.J., “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mrs. Wilson replied. “Just understand the difference between a world-famous rapper and a world-famous raper. It would drastically alter the kind of big house in which you would reside.”
“Okay.” B.J. said. He reached across the row and tapped knuckles with Trevor and sat at his desk in a self-satisfied manner that suggested his teacher’s critique was but a pebble in the road toward social glory.
Here is 350 words from my current Middle Grade wip.
“This young lady needs a training bra,” Christine said so loud that Hannah was sure the entire store could hear her.
“What? No I don’t,” Hannah protested. She tried to hide behind a rack of pajamas hoping to stay as far away as possible from the bras.
“Your dad and I talked about this and we think it’s time,” Christine said.
“You talked to Dad about this?” Hannah said.
This was mortifying. She wondered if they had called a family meeting and asked her stepbrothers, Scott and Tyler, as well.
If she had a cell phone she could call Mom. She was pretty sure her stepmom buying her a training bra was an emergency.
She looked down at her chest. Was it possible she really needed a bra and just didn’t know it?
Just then a group of girls walked by. Hannah recognized them from the lunch table of girls with the designer clothes and make up. She was surprised to see Zoey tagging after them like a puppy dog. She tried to duck farther behind the pajamas hoping that the girls wouldn’t see her.
No such luck. A fake smile lit up Zoey’s face when she saw Hannah.
“What are you doing here?” Zoey said.
Zoey was holding four full shopping bags while the other girls carried nothing but purses and phones. She was trying to earn her way to a better lunch table by schlepping shopping bags for the popular girls.
“Are you girls friends of Hannah’s?” Christine asked.
“Zoey sits at my lunch table,” Hannah said.
“Hannah is getting her first training bra today but she’s a little nervous. Can you girls tell her it’s OK,” Christine said.
The designer jeans girls giggled and clicked away on their phones. Thanks to technology the whole school would know she was getting a bra today. Zoey looked at her like she was the biggest baby on the planet. Hannah felt her face heat up like she’d just eaten a jalapeno pepper. She wished with all her might that an earthquake would hit Pleasant Creek Mall and swallow her whole.
(266 words from a WIP, Happily Ever After)
"And so, they lived happily ever after." Princess Lucinda, second eldest of the kingdom's seven princes and princesses, closed the book and smiled at her youngest sibling. "Time to go to sleep."
"I'm not sleepy. Is that all there is to the story?"
"Well, of course," she said. "What more could you want?"
He made a face. "It sounds boring."
Lucinda laughed. She had an enchanting musical laugh. All five princesses did. "Don't be silly, Nick. We're not boring. We're happy."
Nick did not appear to be convinced. He thrust out his lower lip stubbornly. "But nothing ever happens," he complained.
"Why, what do you want to happen?" Lucinda pulled up the covers and tucked him in. "Do you want a fire-breathing dragon to attack our castle?"
"Yeah!" Nick said enthusiastically.
"Nicholas!" Lucinda was shocked. "Yes, not yeah, and you do not."
"Do too."
Lucinda did not allow herself to frown. For the first seven years of her life, that had never been an issue, not really. She had absolutely no reason to frown.
For the second seven years of her life, she'd had an exasperating baby brother.
She did not intend to let the youngest member of the family ruin her reputation. Fourteen years of perfect behavior would not end here. She gave Nicholas her sweetest smile and dropped a kiss on his forehead. "Good night, little brother," she crooned. "Sleep well, and don't worry. It's happily ever after, and there are positively no dragons in our story."
Nick wiped off the kiss before she left the room. "We never have any fun," he grumbled.
"It's for kicks, see?" said Bobby Dean, twirling the "reefer" in front of Sue's azure eyes. It was late afternoon, and though she'd vowed to meet Alex S. in the library she'd instead accompanied Bobby Dean to the bleachers of the deserted high school gym. The thug drew closer and dripped grease from his slicked-back hair onto Sue's honeydew shoulders. "A hep cat like you needs to loosen up. Why not take a 'hit' of this 'joint'? "
Sue squirmed, and, though squicked out and slightly nauseated, she nevertheless admitted to herself that she felt a smidgen of lust for this filthy lout. She let the tip of her tender tongue push open her plush lips while her long-lashed eyelids lowered. As the leering Bobby Dean leaned forward to insert the tip of his cigarette into her willing mouth, a stray ash from its smoldering tip ignited the grease that coated his paltry mustache. His entire head burst into flames. Screaming, he staggered backward and fell off the bleachers as his chiseled features and rebellious pout melted in the raging inferno.
"I'll never try weed again," said Sue, tearful but relieved, and she went to the library.
–Alvin Sloan
From a MG, wip. 350 words.
“Vilonia, honey, I know you’re in there." A familiar voice drifted inside.
I peeked through the curtains and snapped them shut. Only one person in all of Howard County wore floral prints the size of dinner plates. Miss Bettina, owner of U Killit Catfish. I despised her more than cauliflower.
“Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t you go anywhere.”
Max stared.
That's fish for he understood.
"Vilonia, this is important business. Right up there with that royal wedding. Is your Mama home?"
I groaned. Everything was important to Miss Bettina, especially when it was none of her business. She buzzed in faster than a fly to jelly-clad toast.
"Ms. Tooley's done kicked the can!" Miss Bettina clapped her chubby fingers together with glee. Everything about Miss Bettina was big. Her hair, her hips, even her eyeballs. Only Miss Bettina would be thrilled when a member of our town's passed on. She bowled by me in screaming hibiscus print, and honest to goodness, I tried to protest. But Miss Bettina was large.
And in charge.
"Mama's resting. She can’t be bothered."
"Nonsense, Vilonia. This is Ms. Tooley we're talking about. It'll be the biggest obit of the year!" She leaned closer and cackled. I smelled onions and garlic and hushpuppies. At nine in the morning. "Do you think they’ll have one of those fancy estate sales?" Her flabby cheeks wobbled with excitement. "I'd love to snag her cookware."
Now, Mama pretty much liked everyone in Howard County, and even though her job included consulting next of kin when writing our dearly departed's obituaries, I knew for a fact she had a draft saved under Belinda Beatrice Bettina.
It wasn't scathing. But it wasn't overly kind.
Just like Miss Bettina.
"Vilonia, this here fish has the fungus."
"What?" My heart stopped cold. I didn't know fish could catch fungi. But if anyone knew fish, it was Hushpuppy Breath.
I ran to the fishbowl. Sure enough, Max had rolled onto his side, his top fin white-coated and flailing. He wasn't floating, but he wasn't swimming. He stared straight ahead.
That's fish for "Help!"
An excerpt from my novel, A GIRL NAMED JACK:
Rudy jumps up from his seat and catches something in his thick hands. The white liquid from a milk carton bleeds down his arm and drips from his elbow onto the floor. His face is steely and, if he weren’t my new bodyguard, I’d slowly tiptoe my way toward the cafeteria doors. But everyone in the lunchroom is watching to see what I do.
I walk around the table to Rudy. Taking the half-exploded carton of milk, I pull back my arm for the shot. The students’ attention moves from where I’m standing to where Maitlyn is sitting on the other side of the room. I am Water. I am Bending Bamboo. Bruce Lee whispers in my ear, “Finish her.”
Bringing my arm back down, I say “psych” to my opponent, and Chug the Milk. The Milk and I are one. It seems that among the majority of students, this move is not as respectable as I had thought. Almost everyone wants to see a fight. Tommy Slater boos. I almost boo as well, but then realize it would be booing myself. Instead, I walk over to the nearest lunch table, find a carton of milk and chug it down.
I have no idea what comes over me. I don’t need the approval of the student body, but I want it. I want so badly to be the hero that I decide to make it happen. Desperately, I’m going from table to table chugging everybody’s milk to the delight of the crowd. They’re cheering, “Milk Girl! Milk Girl!” After my eleventh carton of milk, my stomach starts to churn, but I’m on a roll with the white stuff practically spraying out of my nose. Then I stand on a chair and shout with my best beefy Australian accent, “Are you not entertained!?!”
Then the churning in my stomach becomes a problem. Oh no, this is bad. The Milk Strikes Back—I puke all over the cafeteria floor. Everyone is clamoring to get out of the way, stampeding towards the perimeter. Girls are screaming. Milk is not my friend.
"Hamburgers and hot dogs?" cousin Jennifer shrieked. She yanked her two sons away from our grill. The little one dropped the worm he’d been trying to toss into the coals.
"Thank God I brought free-range organic turkey sausages for my boys," she sniffed. "You can’t take chances with all that mad cow disease going around."
“Er, yes,” I said as she flounced off. I comforted myself with a heaping forkful of Aunt Mim's potato salad, and nearly gagged.
I sidled over to Mim. "There's something wrong–"
"I'm so sorry, honey," she said. "But your friend Suzy called me last night and told me the food for your picnic had to be "Vague Anne" or something so she could eat it. She gave me a recipe with no eggs or mayonnaise. So I threw out the potato salad I'd made" I groaned "and made this."
I stifled a sigh, patted Aunt Mim on the shoulder, and turned to greet Sasha, arriving with a warm loaf of homemade French bread.
"Hey, Sash!" my nephew Frederic joined us. He was cramming a hamburger patty into his mouth, grease on his hands, juice dripping onto his XXL Hawaiian shirt.
"I NEVER eat bread," he bellowed, waving a big paw at Sasha’s loaf. "I stopped eating bread five days ago and I’ve lost 20 pounds!"
Fleeing the diet tips, I ducked into the kitchen, where our neighbor Harold was lecturing my husband, Jeff.
"Gee, I can't believe you guys still drink coffee," Harold said, shaking his head. "Don’t you know it inhibits calcium absorption, elevates your blood pressure, and turns you into a crock-winged bleeblethorp?"
Jeff put down the pot of his favorite Guatamalan, brushed past Harold, and came over and gave me a hug. I was unresponsive until he reached up and popped something into my mouth.
I tasted chocolate. Cherries. Liquor. And bacon.
“Delicious,” I sighed.
“Yeah, that’s what your friend Suzy said.”
“But she doesn’t eat —“
“Oh really?” Jeff said with a grin.
Every hostess needs a crock-winged bleeblethorp at her party.