Not a Peanut Butter Sandwich

"Put it down and run away!" Cary screamed. "That's not a peanut-butter sandwich, it's a..."

...smearing of supercrema gianduja!

"It's WHAT?" Carefully peeling back the top slice, I half expect to see a slab of C4 explosive residing on whole wheat.

Nothing but the aroma of filberts and chocolate assaults my nose. My gnawing stomach kicks into a growl. "WHAT is it?" I ask.

Peering around the kitchen door jamb, Cary whispers in a voice oozing venom, "Supercrema gianduja! They made me eat that stuff that summer with Rosa's family. Remember? I broke out in a nasty rash all over my body? My throat swelled up?"

Cary is so dramatic. She's also selectively forgetful. While gathering a roadside bouquet for Rosa's mamma, Sandrina, she'd accidentally harvested some Italian version of poison oak.

I sigh. "You mean Nutella?"

"Yes, NUTELLA," she hisses back at me.

"I'm not offering you any, Cary. This is MY lunch. Go make your own sandwich."

Different perspective from Ric Hardson:

...video tape of Charade!"

Curious about what caused today's outburst, Harlen turned the brown paper parcel over, taking a closer look. Spiky handwriting spelled out five names, one below the other: Mr. Grant, aka Peter Joshua, aka Alexander Dyle, aka Adam Canfield, aka Brian Cruikshank. No address. No return address. Three tired looking stamps were affixed to the upper right corner.

Laying the package with the rest of today's mail on the bed, Harlen walked around behind the wheelchair. "C'mon, Cary. Let's head out for the day room. Lawrence Welk is on this afternoon."

"Lawrence Welk?" His panicky breathing now back to normal, Cary began humming some old dance tune Harlen didn't recognize.

"Yep, good ol' Lawrence." Harlen chuckled. "I bet that cute little Norma Zimmer will be on today, too."

Still humming, the old man wearing big, black-framed glasses closed his eyes and smiled.

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek275.html

Telescope Tales

Rick stared hard into the telescope and said, "I think it's signaling us that we have to..."
...toss out another turkey carcass."

"Really?" I focused my binoculars toward the barn.

Sure enough, that scrawny, tawny coyote was tracking. Shoving his nose close to the ground, he vacuumed the high desert lake bottom dust in search of another bone. Every once in awhile he'd lift his head to snort out a sneeze.

"Our own Nature Channel. Big screen. Right out the dining room window. I LOVE it here."

Rick said this a lot watching bald eagles, jack rabbits, cottontails, quails, and magpies. He said it marveling at clear blue-skied days, and breathing in clean, sage-scented air.

I loved it here, too:

No water bill.

No cable bill.

No sirens.

A million bright stars.

But, most of all: that unexplainably wonderful release each Thanksgiving, when from the kitchen door I'd fling that turkey carcass out across the sparkling snow.

Different point of view by Ric Hardson:

Rick stared hard into the telescope and said, "I think it's signaling us that we have to..."
...take the popcorn out of the microwave."

The silence that follows is broken by another beep. I look up from my book. "What?"

Tearing his gaze from the eyepiece Rick turns to glare at me. Impatiently.

Dang. Caught me again. I just don't seem to hear him when Rick starts rattling off species names: burnt-billed toeheads, yellow-bellied mattress thrashers, cinnamon-tufted deals. Whatever.

"Popcorn." He points at the microwave.

"Right." Sighing not quite loudly enough for him to hear, I open the microwave.

The unpopped packet's right-angled grimace evens the score.

"Rick?"

Silence.

I wait.

Finally, he looks up. "What?"

I smile. Patiently. "You set the timer instead of hitting the popcorn button."

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek276.html

A Little Bit Irish

For St. Patrick's Day this year I'm joining in the fun.

My change of heart came when I heard the newscaster say, "Everyone's a little bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day." Before that, I'd never given much thought to where I came from. I am who I am. I'm certainly thankful the grand sires had twinkles in their eyes and my branch of the tree flourished. But, I never gave much thought as to what kind of tree gave me roots. I have different issues concerning trees.

Certain that there's a little Irish in me somewhere, I peer closely at my reflection. Cocking my head, the light brings out some fiery red highlights. Maybe two or three. Hairs, that is. On my face.

Well, I'm pretty sure I'm a big fan of potatoes. Smothered in gravy. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll eat anything, with or without gravy.

Green? I like green. There's a lovely patch of green grass in front of my house. With a few bleached spots. That may be my fault.

I'm heading out for the parade anyway. Taking a big drink, my reflection ripples. Just for today, this chihuahua's a little bit Irish Setter!

source: http://www.childrencomefirst.com/littleirish.shtml

Computer Frustration

"Stop that!" Lisa shouted at her computer and pounded on the monitor. "Stop telling me I'm..."

...not meeting benchmark! I'm smarter than you think. You're just a stupid machine!"

I walked over to Lisa. She was sobbing, head on her arms, face pressed into the keyboard. Sensing my presence, her muffled, watery voice continued after a loud hiccup, "I'm NOT dumb!"

Looking around the lab at twenty-six other faces, the first traces of worry lines etching across nine year old foreheads, I sighed. Each child on a quest toward a magic number, they were mulitple-choicing their way toward state assessment scores.

Knowing there was no such topic, I didn't flip through the testing manual in search of Dealing-With-Children-Who-Melt-Down-Based-On-Our-Numbers.

Instead, while pressing a tissue into Lisa's hand I wondered how to comfort her with the response discussed at a pre-testing meeting:

"Oh, don't worry. Before May 15th, you can take the test again. Twice."

Different point of view from author Ric Hardson:

"Stop that!" Lisa shouted at her computer and pounded on the monitor. "Stop telling me I'm..."

...never gonna be a writer!"

The computer screen had just blacked out. Jerking the laptop toward herself, its hard drive responded by powering down with a deathly sigh.

"C**p! I didn't mean it! C**p! I didn't save! C**p! three chapters I gotta reinvent! C**p! C**p! C**p!"

Angrily hyperventilating, Lisa snapped the lid shut. Violently pushing away from the desk, she tipped the chair, crashing onto the floor.

Disentangling herself, taking a deep breath, she set the chair back up. Tracing the computer's power cord to discover the problem, Lisa sheepishly reinserted the plug into the outlet.

Open once more to its upright position, Lisa's trusty PowerBook hummed back to life. Its bright screen full of text smiled at her.

Knowing it would be silly to hug a laptop she whispered, "You're right. Lesson learned."

Relieved, Lisa continued writing. Right after she hit SAVE.

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek274.html

Forever . . . After All

"I love you..." you'd say.
"After ALL of these years?"
Then we'd laugh ourselves silly
and almost to tears.

"After ALL of these years,
I love you, too. . ."
(Tho' it had been only weeks
that I had known you.)

"After ALL of these years . . ."
we'd solemnly swear,
Then we'd marvel how quickly
Love brought us there.

A decade is ten years,
Twenty's a score,
Now . . .
Twenty-SIX years later...
I love you MUCH MORE!

Happy Valentine’s Day!



Revised a poem I wrote several years ago, entered it in a contest where I sent it to my own true love as a Valentine. It won third prize, a lamp that will just fit perfectly in our "Rose Room" guest bedroom.

source:
http://www.celebrating-valentinesday.com/contest.shtml#prizes

Mixed Emotions

Ricky had mixed emotions about his raise and promotion, because everyone else was...
...simplifying, eschewing money, possessions, and personal accolades. Dan traded his Mustang for a ratty van. Larissa, if she shopped, haunted thrift stores. Norm bartered leather candle holders for stunted vegetables. Stella spent her bus fare buying seed beads to make necklaces. Smiling vacuously, she'd hand them out like trick or treats to complete strangers.

Pretty sure he was born in the wrong era, Ricky detested this whole hippy existence. Oh, he'd given it a try. Summer of Love and all that. Drove to San Francisco with the four of them. Bought all the gas. Shared his jug of wine. Got his sleeping bag ripped off by some "brother" reeking of mildewed patchouli.

Like a loose checker knocking around in a box of puzzle pieces, Ricky just didn't fit.

Taking a last look around at his party guests passed out on the floor, Ricky shut the door and never looked back.

Different point of view from author Ric Hardson:

Ricky had mixed emotions about his raise and promotion, because everyone else was...
...gone for the night by the time La Diva brought it up.

"Ricky, dear, join me? Drinky-poo?" La Diva beckoned from across the darkened lounge. The rhinestone shoe buckle ring winked seductively from that ruby taloned hand.

Ricky picked up the whipped peach cocktail in one hand and his icy Corona in the other. "Here ya go, Boss."

Inhaling the drink through a clear plastic straw, La Diva finished it off quickly with three very loud, very unladylike gurgles. "Okay, toots. Here's the deal: your weekly pay will most likely double just working weekends."

Ricky knew he was a great bartender, but the offer astounded him.

"Course you'll need a new 'do, flashier clothes." La Diva dropped out of character once again, burped, and slapped Ricky on the back. "How's the name Sharon LaStones sound?"

Ricky was no longer sure he wanted to tend bar at a club featuring female impersonators.

source:
http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek273.html

Shoe Stories

It took Christy a full minute to realize that the thing moving in her shoe was a...

...foot no longer hers.

Rocking a final time the shoe settled upright, inches from her face. She lifted her throbbing head with searing difficulty. Falling from her sticky cheek, gravel shards tick-ticked onto the cool pavement. Shaking her head, blinking to clear her vision, Christy stared at her ankle's fairy tattoo.

The juxtaposition what should be and what was battled in her brain. Painfully sucking in a partial lungful of air, Christy sharpened the focus of her worm's eye view. Exhaling, she tasted a sour ghost breath of coconut, pineapple, and rum.

Wailing sirens filled her ears, her brain, her soul. Her peripheral vision closed to a pinpoint. Summoning the core of her very being, she scraped-lifted-extended a shredded hand toward her companionless shoe. The black hole of Christy's pavement world began sucking her deep into its maw. A silent tear slid earthward as she whispered, "Tinkerbell--"

Different point of view from author Ric Hardson:

It took Christy a full minute to realize that the thing moving in her shoe was a...
...banana slug. She didn't notice it at first. Even though the sun was already rising, it was purply dark beneath the trees. Thank goodness she did notice it. The thought of her bare foot sharing shoe space with a slimy slug made her skin crawl.

Christy used a twig to ease the spotted creature onto the leafy ground next to her sleeping bag. Perplexed with its change of venue, the slug's stalks wavered back and forth seeking information. Christy didn't know whether it was the slant of sunshine or the chill of a miniscule breeze, but something engaged the slug's internal GPS system. Its upper body rose a half inch before angling away.

At the speed of spilled molasses, the banana slug traveled toward deeper shadows. The thought of his body sharing such close quarters with a naked foot made his skin crawl.

source:
http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek272.html