Six ideas sit on the tip of each blade of my candy apple pinwheel. The contraption, constructed of misty visions and concrete poured by a previous owner, is designed to delight the masses for a ha'penny and a song. The wily spinner will swallow your golden goose, stuffed with holly and bonfire, if you forget to time your contractions. Double action. A story is born! Watch these words wind up for the pitch. Release. Rotors slice the air with the greatest of ease. We are lifted out of despair. And all in one piece.
Semi-Daily Scribbles
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What is it I see?
Forget the sickly green beans.
Drumstick and roll, please. -
Over fed, flushed, bloated. Juanita fumbled with buttons beneath the crocheted tablecloth and sighed as she freed her belly from stretchless denim. Each year she vowed to wear a high-waisted dress, Regency-like, though second hand maternity would do just as well. Next year, for sure. Then she could eat and drink while a loose, billowy frock concealed her penchant for roasted delights — drippings, crisp skin, charred peelings, golden crust. What clung to the bottom of the pan was fair game when it came to Juanita and her holiday palate. -
We've come to the sit-and-wait phase. A distinct advantage, we think, over the Rush-Right-In'ers and Roll-Right-Overs. We get to see the ever-changing patterns on the wall tell their seasonal stories, like "The One-Way Gravy Boat to Turkey." We are ever mindful of the lumps. Not so the Grab-and-Dashers who care more about second helpings than being of help. We wonder what it is they read on the wall, if anything at all.
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Lynda shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she listened to a tinny rendition of "Angels We Have Heard on High" coming out of a battery operated tree topper wedged among the magazines at the checkout line. It was a really long line and an even more annoying song that played over and over and over. No one, Lynda included, did anything to power down the angel ornament with the Casio keyboard rendition of the carol coming out of the top of its head. Lynda looked down at her spool of gold colored thread and carton of soy nog and wished she felt a bit more merry and a little less weary as the countdown to Black Friday commenced. -
Roll with that proposal. Don't over think it. Let the message sink in. The worry, the handwringing, the sleepless nights are all just roadblocks to avoid what's right. A roundabout with no way out. Hover above the chaos and concentrate on the work. Little steps lead to opportunities in disguise. -
The stakes get higher and higher with each crazy idea I pull out of the compost. All that fertilizer is bound to make an impact one of these days. Close, ever so close, to finding out which happy ending goes where. I've definitely lost my patience with second guesses and third strikes. The time is now to banish fear. Shoo away with a stiff backhand the doubt that shouts: YOU CAN'T DO THAT! THAT'S NOT HOW IT'S DONE!Sit down. Relax. Just watch me now.
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The boy woke up and a blizzard raged outside his tarpaulin window. Sleet pummeled the sheet metal siding of his home.
Must be a dream, must be a dream. I can't have done this. Not in my sleep!
The boy was fully awake now, shivering like he'd never shivered before. In fact, he couldn't recall ever being cold. His winter nightmare had become a very real predicament. The boy had only shorts and a t-shirt. And his too large sandals the lady across the ravine gave him after her husband died. Not exactly the proper arctic wardrobe.
Do people wear sandals in the snow?
The boy got up from the floor. He was shocked at how much colder the air was a mere inch or two above where he slept. He laid back down on the scratchy mat. He rubbed his eyes and blew snot through his right nostril. The slime landed on a frozen beetle in the corner of the shack he referred to as his room. Then he saw the bright red eyes stare down at him from the corrugated ceiling. Bulging and bloodshot, those eyes were in the boy's dream, along with mountains of powdery snow. The boy tried desperately to remember what he'd wished for as he drifted off to sleep the night before.
A bath in lavender water, like when I was a baby.
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There are still more outlines Peri needs to draft before she feels like she's covered all the bases. She's not even sure why she's running them (the bases, that is), but the exercise allegedly leads to agile ideas and thicker skin. At this stage in the game, though, Peri will take agile skin and thicker ideas if that's what the Gawds of Creativity deem appropriate. Peri doesn't want to be known as persnickety, so she continues to hack away at her craft and knock on any wood surfaces that cross her path. A nibble for her trouble is all she asks now that the leaves are a pretty patchwork of jewels on the ground. -
I read your rolled up note. Took me a few minutes to get it out of the bottle, and then the edges were wet because the cork leaked, but all the words were there. I appreciated the message but it didn't go deep with me. Guess I've been spoiled by all these years of exposure. I've seen your folds and dimples and odd-shaped splotches. I've witnessed your soul turn seven shades of black before my eyes burned from your brilliance. Too bright of a light you can be at times. Times like these, with your campaign to make everyone shine as you do. To make us as transparent as you are. But I hide all your secrets from public view. It's hard for you to keep your persona from slipping down around your ankles. A messy sight, in darkness and light. Makes that connection we have a little too real. Sometimes I don't want to step out from behind the screen. I hope you understand.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 