The Tale of Lazy Sam

by Sara on March 21, 2013

Sam hadn’t moved in hours. I touched him with my foot to see if he was still alive. He opened his eyes, blinked at me, and shut them again. He was stretched out in the plaid chair under the window. The sunlight through the blinds created shadows on his small body.

Archie, the bunny lay under the chair. His beady eyes stared out at me. Sam hadn’t touched him in days. A jolt of worry crossed my mind, but I ignored it. I was good at that.

Billy came home from work and asked, “What’s wrong with Sam?”

I shrugged and continued nuking our dinners. Sam wandered in and Billy picked him, holding him up to his shoulder. It wasn’t long before we both heard snoring.

“Maybe it’s time to take him to the doctor.” Billy motioned to Sam with his head, concern flickering in his brown eyes.

I shook my head. “Nah, he’ll be fine. He’s just lazy.”

The next day, I found Sam sleeping in the tub. Now, this concerned me. I don’t like taking a bath after Sam’s been in tub. His hair gets all over the place. It was time to do something. I figured it was all Archie’s fault.

I dragged Archie out from under the chair. He squealed as I held him. We drove to the store.

Once inside, I said, “Archie isn’t working anymore. I need to get rid of him.”

The man at the counter said, “No, you don’t. I can fix him up just fine.”

Archie squealed even louder as the man took hold of him and disappeared behind the curtains. After about ten minutes, the man came back.

He smiled at me and said, “I put some stuff in Archie’s tummy. As he handed the bunny back to me, I noticed he was fatter.

When I paid, the man said, “Sam will be happy now.”

“I hope so. I’ve been tempted to trade him in for a more active one.”

The man eyes widened. “Don’t do that. Sam’s a good boy. The bunny will get him moving again.”

I smiled and said, “He’d better. See you next time.”

“I hope so.” The man gave me a worried look as I turned and walked out the door,

At home, Sam had moved from the tub back to the chair under the window. This time he didn’t even bother to open his eyes when I walked in.

He was lying on his back, fat and content. I pulled out Archie, squeezing him so he’d squeal and gave him a shake or two.

Sam’s nose twitched. Then it twitched again. His eyes popped open. He rolled over, stood and stretched. He got off the chair, stared at me and waited.

I didn’t disappoint him. I tossed Archie high into the air. His bunny ears flopped around. Sam caught him midair with his nails.

He brought him down and rolled on the floor, kicking that poor bunny with his back feet over and over again. After a few minutes, he picked up Archie in his mouth and dashed around the house. Six hours later, Sam was still playing.

Billy came home, popped the top off of a beer and said, “That’s the craziest cat I know, but he sure does love his catnip toy.”

We watched as Sam sniffed Archie while holding the orange bunny tightly in his paws. I swear that cat smiled.

 

This isn’t Sam. It’s Aggie, but that was her catnip orange toy bunny or maybe it was supposed to be a mouse with very long ears. She loved it either way.

Unfortunately, Orange Bunny-Mouse met its demise when a little dog of a friend found it. All we found was a few pieces of orange cloth and a bunch of stuffing:~)

Aggie now has a yellow banana with catnip in it. It’s one of her favorite toys.

{ 24 comments }

Your Photo Challenge

by Sara on March 19, 2013

My creativity deserted me this week.

This might to your advantage:~)

I give you this picture with only one request.

Write the caption to go with it.

*     *     *

Need more of a challenge?

Try out  The New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest

{ 12 comments }

Fiction: The Biker Man

by Sara on March 11, 2013

This story is dedicated to one my friends who used to be biker. While she wasn’t an official Hell’s Angel, I’m pretty sure she was “hell on wheels” when she rode her bike. She’s still mighty feisty:~)

Dr. Lahari, my therapist, suggested going to the movies would help my phobia of thunderstorms. In her nasal voice, she said, “Camille, pick a loud movie. You won’t even hear …” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “the thunder.”

The next time the Weather Channel showed lots of red and yellow near my town indicating thunder storms, I found myself sitting on a sticky wooden seat, waiting for a movie to start.

I dropped my worry beads and leaned over to get them. Coming up, I caught a man staring at me. I knew he was looking at me because we were the only two people waiting for the next playing of Expendables 2.

I try not to make judgments based on appearance, but this man gave me the heebie-jeebies. He was around my age, about sixty. Chains hung from his clothes. A spiked leather bracelet complemented his studded biker boots. Bright tattoos peeked out from under his t-shirt. He was a biker man.

I don’t like biker men, but I wasn’t about to let this one scare me. The approaching storm was bad enough. I folded my arms and glared back. He shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t look away.

After a few minutes of our stare-off, I got up and sauntered over to the ticket boy as if I had a question to ask. He was studying his nails; I tapped his shoulder. With an arched thin eyebrow, he asked, “Do you need something, ma’am?

Using my head, I indicated the biker man and whispered, “See that man; the one who looks like an aging Hell’s Angel. He’s bothering me. Make him move.”

My attempt at subtlety went over his head; the ticket boy pointed directly at the biker man and said, “You mean that man. What’s he done to you?”

“Well, nothing, but he could. I’m a woman alone. He might be dangerous.”

The ticket boy sighed.  “Ma’am, I can’t make him move unless he does something. He’s got every right to stand there.”

“Well, he’s scaring me!” My voice was louder and higher than intended.

Raising his hand in a calming manner, the ticket boy said, “Okay, settle down. I’ll talk to him.”

He strolled over to the biker man. They talked. I watched. There were lots of gestures and words I couldn’t hear.

The ticket boy returned, shrugged his shoulders and said. “He doesn’t want to move.” With that said, he began studying his nails again and ignored me.

I returned to my sticky seat, but before I could sit down, the biker man stomped over, chains jingling. “What’s your problem, lady? I’m not doing anything to you.”

“You’re staring. It’s creepy.” I lifted my chin. He moved closer. I stood my ground and looked up into his eyes. My goodness, he has nice blue eyes.

He screwed that thought by snarling, “You got a problem with bikers, lady?”

“Not all bikers, just you! Leave me alone or I’ll get the manager.”

“Last time I heard, looking isn’t a crime. Then again, why am I looking at an uptight old lady like you?”

“Look who’s talking old. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

We were saved when the movie doors opened and people spilled out. I scooted inside. After settling in, I scanned the room and there he was sitting two rows back, smiling at me.

“Shit.” I whispered. Our eyes locked.

He mouthed, “Thought you could escape me? Wrong!”

My heart jumped. I slouched in my seat as the lights went down.

Just as the movie started, a big boom rattled the building, followed by another. Dr. Lahari lied to me! I heard this thunder just fine.

My heart started an erratic race. I dug in my purse for my meds, but the bottle slipped. Pills spilled, rolling down the darkened floor. Heat rushed through me. Drops of sweat fell into my eyes. I gasped for breath.

I stumbled out of my chair and fell on the stairs. Darkness closed in. Paper crinkled. Something smelling like popcorn was placed over my mouth. A familiar voice commanded. “Breathe lady! It’s just a panic attack. You’re gonna be fine.”

I took a breath and then another. Slowly, the panic eased. I opened my eyes, squinting in the bright light of the ticket boy’s flashlight. The biker man was leaning over me, holding a popcorn bag to my face.

“You! Get away from me.” I scrambled backwards, knocking the popcorn bag to the floor.

His chains jingled as he shook his head. “I should’ve let you pass out, but I know how it feels.”

He chuckled at my surprised look. “What, bikers can’t have panic attacks? Dogs do it for me. I sweat, can’t breathe, and eventually pass out. One time I woke up and this big old St. Bernard was licking my face. I passed out again.”

I smothered a laugh. Biker men weren’t supposed to be funny.

My show was over. The other people trying to watch the movie yelled for quiet. The biker man extended his hand. I took it and we went outside.

We sat together on the sticky bench. He asked, “Are you feeling better?”

I spoke to my feet. They didn’t care if I was embarrassed. “Yeah, I am. Thanks for what you did.”

The biker man’s words came out in rush. “Since we’re missing the movie, you want to share panic attack stories over a cup of coffee? My name’s Bob, by the way.”

OMG, he was asking me out! My stomach flip-flopped. I raised my eyes and really looked at him. He was cute, once you got used to the chains and the tattoos. Plus, he understood the embarrassment of breathing into paper bags. Dr. Lahari always told me to be more daring; here was my chance.

I nodded, stuck my hand out and said, “I’m Camille.” His hand was warm in mine. We walked out together. The ticket boy stared at us with his mouth open, ignoring his nails. I smiled at him.

*     *     *     *     *

This week is Jim’s spring break. We plan on doing springy kind of things, like sleeping in to catch the extra hour we lost, maybe taking a few road trips or doing spring cleaning. Anyone want to bet on whether or not we get to the “spring cleaning?” Anyway, this is my only post for this week, but I will get out and visit.

 

{ 11 comments }

Anniversary Post: Let your light shine

by Sara on March 6, 2013

I forgot my blog anniversary. It was last month. My first post was in February, 2007, meaning I’ve just started my seventh year of blogging:~) To celebrate, I’m putting up one of my older posts, written in 2008.

I met a woman at a conference years ago. We got to talking and she shyly told me she had written a book that had been recently published. I was impressed and told her so.

Instead of being proud of what she’d done, she downplayed it by making excuses for what she had accomplished. She didn’t seem to believe she deserved success.

I asked her about this.

She said it made her nervous and fearful to acknowledge that she was a success, especially since she had not sold any books yet.

Before we could talk more about this, the workshop moved on and I didn’t have a chance to talk with her again.

I wished I had.

I would have said to her, “Wait a minute! What’s wrong with feeling powerful and strong about what you did accomplish? You wrote a book and it was published!  What’s wrong with believing you deserve every piece of that success?”

Most of all, I wished I had asked her what made her afraid of success.

But I didn’t.

Today, as I was clearing out files on my computer, I came across a passage entitled, Our Deepest Fear, written by Marianne Williamson. I’ve had it for a long time, but read it again.  It reminded me of the woman at the workshop.

Since I have no way to contact her, I’m doing the next best thing.  I’m posting this passage on my blog and trusting that it will get to her if she still needs it.

If not, maybe someone like her will read it and fully celebrate who they are and what they’ve accomplished.

Maybe even you.

If you haven’t read it yet, now is your chance.  If you’ve read it before, read it again.  It’s worth it!

Our Deepest Fear

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?
Actually, who are you NOT to be?
You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel unsure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone.

As we let our own Light shine,
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

Author ~ Marianne Williamson

The last verse of this poem says exactly how I feel about blogging.

The posts I visit inspire me to let “my light shine” and I hope my posts do the same for those who visit my site.

Creativity, in all its forms, is like a good meal; it’s best appreciated when shared. Blogging opens the door and welcomes us in to share our word and picture meals.

Bon Appétit, my friends:~)

 

 

 

 

{ 23 comments }

Funny Friday

by Sara on February 28, 2013

Today, there is no fiction writing. But don’t be too disappointed:~) Because I believe laughter is good for you, I have a treat for you this Funny Friday.

Not long ago, I came across the following video, which is clever, funny and well, a bit silly in places.  However, I think you’ll find something to make you laugh:

YouTube Preview Image

There are many more of these videos on YouTube. Some do repeat, but I guarantee you will not mind.

The videos are from an actual BBC Television program called “Walk on the Wild Side,” which I believe is now into its third season, but on CBBC!

According to Wikipedia, “Walk on the Wild Side” began in 2009. The premise is to do voice-overs to actual natural history film footage. The program also includes celebrity guest voices.

Please keep in mind — some of the humor in this video may be just a bit different. If you don’t like something, scroll through it.

Please feel free to share your favorite scene. My favorite was “Daytime Nighttime.”

Enjoy Funny Friday.

p.s.

For those of you who want more, here’s another:

YouTube Preview Image

 

{ 14 comments }

Story Photo: Friend or Foe

by Sara on February 26, 2013

While walking in the woods, I came across these ferns. I got uneasy because they moved as if to hide someone or something.

“It’s just the wind.” I reassured myself. The ferns moved again ever so slightly

An uncertain shiver ran up my spine. I called out, “Who’s there?”

There was no answer, just the rustling of dried leaves.

I mustered my courage and called, “Are you friend or foe?”

The Photo Challenge

Answer one, two or all of these questions:

1) Who or what is hiding amongst the ferns?

2) What will it say to me?

3) Briefly describe it.

Extra Credit Challenge

Write out a short dialogue between me and whoever or whatever is hiding in the ferns. You can continue the dialogue I started. If you do this, just copy the last line and add your own finish.

Quickie Question

Answer the question: “Are you friend or foe?”

{ 27 comments }

Write at the Merge: Kaylein’s Sacrifice

by Sara on February 21, 2013

This story was written for a Write at the Merge prompt. The prompt was to use either the above  picture and/or the following quote:

“It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.” —Ayn Rand

Kaylein stood before the elders, straight and tall. Her face looked confident, but she was terrified. She’d gotten the news last night after Asher brought her home. She touched her lips; they still tingled from his kisses.

She cleared her voice and asked, “Why was I called? It’s not my turn.”

“Malkyn broke her leg. You’re next,” said the chubby elder with a pockmarked face.

“But I’m only sixteen. You have to be seventeen.” Kaylein knew the rules. It was her life at stake.

“You are ready. Remember, this is what you’ve trained for – to save us. Your people depend on our care.” It was the elder with the long braided beard. He gave her a nasty look.

Kaylein bristled. How dare he speak to her like that? Her eyes glowed red, making the elder look away. Her point made, she said, “What if I refuse? I have that right.”

“You have that right, but this is your people’s promise.” Marjole was the elder who trained Kaylein. Her soft voice spoke to Kaylein’s honor.

Kaylein bowed and nodded her acceptance to the elders.

Now, huddled on a wooden bench, she was to dance for the creature. Her feet ached in the satin slippers disguising them. But she couldn’t rub them. Kaylein had no arms or hands. Her people were born with malformations. Some were severe.  She was one of the lucky ones.

“I can’t do this. I’m not ready to die.” She pleaded with Marjol, who was allowed to mind-speak with Kaylein.

“If you don’t, they will die and your people with them.” Marjol’s voice was sad, but determined.

“I don’t care. This isn’t fair.” Angry tears spilled down Kaylein’s cheeks.

“Think of the children, then.” Marjol’s voice faded as heavy footsteps thudded outside.

The door flew open. The creature’s musky scent filled the room. Kaylein cringed seeing his sharp teeth, glistening with fresh blood.

His beady eyes reflected disgust; he believed she was weak and deformed. Sprawling on a cushion by the fire, he lifted a hairy finger and made a circle with his long dirty fingernail. Kaylein hesitated.

“Dance! I need sleep,” screamed the creature.

She studied him. That was when she saw it: A piece of bloodied pink cloth stuck in his filthy beard. It matched four-year-old Adrianna’s dress. He’d found the children. Hot rage filled Kaylein.

She began to dance. When his eyelids drifted down, she danced closer. When he began to snore, she started to spin. Her feet moved faster and faster until she was high in the air, hovering just above his sleeping head.

Her shoes burst, freeing her flexible feet and long toes. They wrapped themselves around the creature’s neck and squeezed. He fought, but Kaylein was too strong. She held on until she heard the crunch of his broken neck. The creature was dead.

Kaylein fell. As she lay dying, she heard the children laughing and Marjol whisper, “We honor your sacrifice.”

*     *     *     *     *

This story was partly inspired by the following video of two amazing dancers.

YouTube Preview Image

 

 

{ 33 comments }

Story Photo: The Crooner

by Sara on February 19, 2013

This is a favorite picture of someone I love very much. He had a secret he shared with me, but it took him a long time to tell me. He loves to sing and is actually good at it. You learn something new every day, right?

This picture was taken in Switzerland last year. It was a fun night had by all, but let’s not waste any more time…let’s go straight to the challenge.

Your Photo Challenge

Answer one, two or all three of these questions in the comment box.

1) What song is this crooner singing? You can include the name of the song or get fancier and add a YouTube link to the song. (just be sure  to put the link in the comment box)

2) Why is he singing? Is it a custom in Switzerland, was it because of a bet or was he crooning a song just for me (Awww!)? You can also come up with your own unique reason for the crooner to be crooning.

3) What’s with the guy wearing the pink hair? You’re on your own with this one:~)

Quickie Challenge

Who is your favorite crooner?

 

“Creativity is contagious, pass it on” – Albert Einstein

 

{ 20 comments }

Fiction: The Handmade Card

by Sara on February 14, 2013

I got the handmade card you sent. It was full of sparkling glitter and glued on red hearts. The message inside was typical of you: You will always belong to me.

Really, you shouldn’t have sent it. After five years, your words can’t harm me anymore. I’m better now — the jagged cut down my face you made to mark me and the slashes across my wrists I made to escape you are slowly healing.

I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’ve found an amazing man. He’s been an elixir for my constant fear. He makes me sigh when his lips touch mine with feathery kisses. And when his fingers dance their way down my stomach, I shiver with pleasure. He knows how to love me. In short, he’s nothing like you.

Oh! Before I forget, I gave the card to the police. You were careful, but their forensics tests were better. They found a single hair stuck in the glitter. It matched a recent case two counties over. Unlike me, the woman died. Unlucky for you, they caught you this time.

I imagine you will read this letter in your tiny cell. Your arrival must have sparked some interest. The pretty ones always do. You’ll have plenty of time to dwell on the cold eyes of men watching your every move, licking their lips in anticipation. Does this scare you? I hope so.

You will not be on my mind this Valentine’s Day. I’ll be with that man I mentioned. We’ll make love and afterwards take a walk, crunching through the snow, smelling the woodsy scent of fireplaces, and watching twinkling stars rise in the violet sky. It’s a shame your jail cell has no windows.

Have a happy Valentine’s Day, but do watch your back.

*     *     *     *     *

With this post, I am linking to two different prompts. One is the Trifecta Writing Challenge, using the word DWELL. The word limit was 333 words. The second prompt was from Write at the Merge and it was to use the word ELIXIR.

{ 56 comments }

Story Photo: Valentine Picture

by Sara on February 11, 2013

Picture One: The Green Heart

Picture Two: The Pink Flower and the Bee

Picture Three: The Doves

Nature has a way of producing natural heart shapes. Although it’s not common, it can be found if you look for it. Do you see the “heart” in these pictures? Look closely:~)

Today’s Valentine Challenge

Imagine these pictures are on the cover of a Valentine’s Day card. Pick one and write the message inside the card and relate it to the picture.

For example, I picked the doves and my message inside the card is “Together we create one heart, my love.”

Quickie Question

For those of you who need to stop and go, here’s a quick question: Are you a fan of Valentine’s Day or not?

If you want to go beyond “yes” or “no,” consider adding the reason(s) for your answer.

Have fun, enjoy and be creative!

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