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Post by rogesgallery on Dec 16, 2007 11:11:48 GMT -5
Why duct tape of course.
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Post by rogesgallery on Dec 16, 2007 11:13:21 GMT -5
Wouldn't ya know it, once again my comment will be taken entirely out of context.
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Post by booklady on Dec 16, 2007 11:24:57 GMT -5
Give us the context, then.
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Post by michael on Dec 16, 2007 17:05:19 GMT -5
No worries, roges. I take the truth being told to me very well. If someone wants to weave in a sub-topic about a "mature" woman confronted with a dead mouse on a basement stair landing and how to dispose of it without actually looking at it or touching it, I'd be obliged. Booky, I think you would be perfect as Aunt Jackie. Not only is she mature (and funny, attractive, intelligent, witty, etc... ) she lives in a run down piece of property that is plagued with rats. Are you interested in the part?
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Post by booklady on Dec 16, 2007 17:46:21 GMT -5
Change the rats to well-muscled baseball players attending to my every need and I'll consider it.
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Post by slb2 on Dec 16, 2007 19:11:22 GMT -5
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Post by michael on Dec 16, 2007 19:31:48 GMT -5
Change the rats to well-muscled baseball players attending to my every need and I'll consider it. I guess we need to write in a part for a modern day Cleopatra that manages a stud farm for baseball players. Mike
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Post by joew on Dec 16, 2007 19:55:33 GMT -5
I think the duct tape is for deceased rodent removal.
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Post by rogesgallery on Dec 17, 2007 7:12:57 GMT -5
Give us the context, then. It was the solution for your mouse problem.
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Post by rogesgallery on Dec 17, 2007 7:23:23 GMT -5
No, no. Duct tape in any context is appropriate, roges. Have you seen what we've done with it over on the Sisters in Passion thread? The Sisters in Passion thread scares me S.
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Post by slb2 on Dec 18, 2007 1:15:26 GMT -5
The following was in the writer's almanac. And I say, "Thank you!" I need to hear about these people. Publication seems like a fantasy.
It's the birthday of Penelope Fitzgerald, who didn't write her first book until she was 60 years old. Fitzgerald still wrote three biographies and 10 novels in her lifetime. Her best-known work, The Blue Flower, won the National Book Award in 1998.
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Post by michael on Dec 18, 2007 17:41:10 GMT -5
…Gaylord had been being particularly overbearing and mean toward Raymond and poor Raymond was I’ll prepared for what was to come next.
Gaylord owned several run down houses on the wrong side of the tracks and he rented these to the worst trailer trash one could imagine. Collecting rent from these folks could be a real challenge, as well as dangerous. On Raymond’s 16th birthday, Gaylord made him the rent money collector.
So, on the 30th of the month, Raymond peddled his bike to Alafae Johnson’s house to collect the rent. Standing on the front porch, he could hear the TV playing, children crying and Alafae screaming at the poor kids. Filled with feelings of overwhelming anxiety, Raymond knocked on the front door… knock, knock, knock.
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Post by michael on Dec 18, 2007 23:16:35 GMT -5
“Who in the hell is it?” Alafae screamed in the direction of the door. “It’s me, Raymond; I’m here to collect the rent money”. A moment later, the screen door was practically kicked off it’s hinges and Alafae stomped out on the porch so hard that the baby nursing at her breast was swinging around like a gymnast working out on the rings. “I ain’t got any damn money right now so you might as well clear outta hear… NOW!” Well, Raymond almost wet his pants, and Alafae was eyeball to eyeball with him, and she wasn’t blinking. “My Daddy told me not to come back without the money” Raymond managed to eek out. Then he was hit in the nostrils with the worst cigarette breath he’d ever smelled as Alafae walked into him ‘til he fell backwards off the porch, and she screamed at him “I don’t care what your pappy told you, squirt, you will be leaving here empty handed”. By the time the last word was out of her mouth, Raymond was already on his bike heading down the road as fast as he could peddle.
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Post by michael on Dec 29, 2007 7:26:09 GMT -5
Raymond rode his bicycle until he reached the creek, then he ditched it under the bridge. He followed the train tracks that paralleled the slimy waterway and only stopped to wipe the tears from his eyes and the snot from his nose. Once he reached the big locust tree where the creek twisted away from the train tracks, he threw himself down on the creek bank and sobbed.
Raymond knew he couldn't go home without the rent money, and he knew that he wasn't going back to face Alafae either. Just then, he heard the whistle of the coal train. Decisions were being made in Ray's mind that would probably effect the rest of his life... he stood up, wiped the last tears from his eyes and faced the oncoming train.
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Post by slb2 on Dec 29, 2007 9:50:23 GMT -5
Mike!! Do you have this story already written out in your head or on paper? I'm pumped to keep reading. Where do you come up with those names?
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Post by michael on Dec 29, 2007 10:11:03 GMT -5
Mike!! Do you have this story already written out in your head or on paper? I'm pumped to keep reading. Where do you come up with those names? Susan, I'm steeling everything from my life and everyone else I've ever met. Stay tuned... P.S. I make it up as I go!
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Post by michael on Dec 30, 2007 6:05:27 GMT -5
The train was coming closer and Raymond had decided to hop it and see where life took him; he had already concluded that any life without his father, Gaylord, would be better than this. As he was looking down the tracks, trying to steady his nerve, Danial Burr walked into the clearing carrying a shot gun.
Raymond knew Danial from school. Everyone knew Danial. He had been flunked so many times in 6th grade, that he had the distinction of being the only 6th grader in the history of Palmetto Elementary school to ever have a drivers license. Somewhere along the way, Danial just stopped coming to school and started working full time on his father's pig farm. The Burr's were famous for their cherry wood smoked hams. Raymond also knew Danial's younger sister, Melody. She was the first girl Raymond had ever kissed. She had let Raymond feel her breasts one night in the ball park dugouts last summer... and Ray would never, ever forget that for the rest of his life.
Danial walked up to ray and casually said " Ray, you ain't thinkin' 'bout jumpin the coal train, are you"
Ray started to snivel a little and said "Danial, I gotta get outta here, and it's the only way I know how".
Danial, leaned his shot gun against the locust tree and sat down on the creek bank... "Raymond, you dumb shit, you'll kill yourself trying to jump on a movin' train. Trust me, I know". Danial pulled out a pack a chewing tobacco and stuffed a wad into his mouth. His brown teeth automatically chomping down on the chew and mauling it into a gooey ball of slime. "Raymond, I know I ain't the most book learned fella around, but I got a lot of experience when it comes to running away from trouble. Forget about that train, let's you and me talk".
Raymond simply shook his head up and down, and breathed out a long breath.
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Post by slb2 on Feb 29, 2008 13:42:25 GMT -5
Belling Mickey
(I wrote this short story this morning after reading the introduction to this article by Deb A. In case you don't skip over to Deb's article, the gist of it is to include bell, bridge, and five pounds of coffee in your story. My added challenge: stop reading after this intro, write your own story in one sitting, and link it to this one. Paste your link in a comment here.)
"The cross," Sister Rita's gold tooth glinted, "represents the holiest of oriflammes. It is the bridge that takes us from our earthly, pagan thoughts to the upper echelons of godliness."
Dutifully I write down the word 'oriflamme' in my notebook. I roll the word around in my mouth feeling the backs of my front two teeth as I pretend to pronounce "...flamme."
Oriflamme. I think of a dentist drilling for oil in my back molar. I think of the weird names Felix's family had for the skinny little Christmas-colored peppers in their garden. I think of the strange toothpaste my dad had brought home from Lafond's Pharmacy last night. He'd stashed it in his dresser drawer, thinking no one could see him, but I was belly-flopped next to the bed reading mom's apparent sizzler by Jacqueline Susann.
She raps her ruler on the oak desk standing beside a Map of the World. "Fifth graders, who can find the country that gave us the word, 'oriflamme'?"
My hand shoots up. I don't know why it does. I hate to go up in front of the room. Last time I did I stepped in a wad of chewed up paper that Mickey Flores had just deposited on the floor. I was wearing my new high top red Converse tennies, too.
Mickey weighs 47 pounds more than me. I know this because last month the school nurse had all of the boys line up into her office. When each of us walked into her room, the scale was there waiting. Mickey elbowed in ahead of me and hopped on the scale. "One hundred and nineteen pounds," Miss Guidry said approvingly. "You've been eating your chili."
I spun the dial up to 72 pounds. "Still holding out for that growth spurt?" Miss Guidry asked. Like I was supposed to have an answer. Like I was supposed to say, "As a matter of fact, yes! I'm just waiting for the right time to stop looking like a third grader and grow hair on my chest with a manly furrow of hair right down to my impressive manly organ." What was I suppose to say? Instead I said, "Hey. My mom buys that same kind of coffee." Miss Guidry had a five-pound bag of McGarvey coffee sitting on her desk.
"Oh that. It's for the teachers' lounge. I picked it up at Shopwell this morning. I bet your mom doesn't buy coffee in five pound bags, does she, Eddie?"
I just shrugged and looked out the window.
Sister Rita smiles at me. "Edwin?" she sings out. "It's Eddie," I mumble, wanting to run like a cockroach caught in the slant of light from a midnight snacker.
She holds out the long pointer to me. Stupidly I stand up and walk forward. Mickey sticks his leg out. I'm gonna bell the cat, I think to myself, stepping soundly on his ripped sneaker. I hear a toe crack. Mickey yanks his foot back.
Recess is in forty minutes.
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Post by liriodendron on Feb 29, 2008 16:31:18 GMT -5
So let me get this straight - you want us each to write a short story in one sitting that includes bell, bridge, and five pounds of coffee? I didn't read yours. I just don't have time to write a story right now and I want to make sure that I know what I'm supposed to be doing when I do.
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Post by slb2 on Feb 29, 2008 17:49:42 GMT -5
Lirio, I published this over on Gather.com and didn't cut the intro part. I'm not intending that you write a short-short, but hey, if you're motivated, YEAH, do it!
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