Today's prompt: Write about a memory you have involving one (or more) of your grandparents.
Dana Lee wrote:
My grandpa on my mother's side passed away almost 12 years ago. I talked about his funeral briefly last week.
When I was younger I would spend time at their house up north for a week or two sometimes. A few summers I would go to Vacation Bible School at their church. We would begin and end the day in the sanctuary. We would sing songs, talk about the day, etc.
My grandpa was a tall man. One day he got the honor of playing Goliath in a reenactment of "David and Goliath." I thought it was so cool to see him get so excited about it and fall dramatically to the floor as he pretend died.
Chuck C. wrote:
It was a sunny, brisk spring day. I was about thirteen or fourteen years old, and I was going out with my Grandpa to do one of my favorite activities with him: shoot stuff. For Christmas a few months before I had gotten a new rifle, a Mosin-Nagent M44 carbine. It was an old Russian World War II era sniper rifle, thought it could more accurately be described as a cannon.
As a young kid I was honestly a bit terrified to fire the thing off. We pulled into his gun club and made our way down to the range. My grandpa grabbed a set of old bean cans that he had brought with him and set them up in a row. My Grandfather is a bit stoic, and would never visibly show it, but I think we has just as excited to fire of my new rifle as I was. We walked back to the firing line and got out the star of the day. The shells, which weren’t easy to find, were the size of my middle finger.
My grandpa insisted on firing it first, seeing as the thing was old enough to be my grandfather (if guns has the ability to reproduce). He loaded one round into the chamber and racked the bolt. When he pulled that trigger, a deafening sound ripped through the small valley the range was built into. The can the bullet hit flew from its resting place and landed a good ten feet away. Of course, I instantly demanded to fire the next shot. He obliged, loaded a shot for me and handed me the rifle. I lined up my shot and squeezed the trigger. I thought my shoulder would rip off as the gun recoiled. The can flew upwards and disappeared in the brush in front of the back stop. Instantly I was hooked.
All told I put probably 40 rounds that day through that thing. My shoulder hurt for days. However, fond memories with my grandfather and making stuff fly with bullets was well worth it.
Melody Joy wrote:
I have a lot of memories of my grandparents, but one that came to mind involved my paternal grandfather, who passed away a few years ago now. I was in middle school, and normally my mom picked me up, but she was unable to do so one day for some reason, so my grandpa came to get me.
We were driving down the main street which had a 35 mph speed limit. Being in Michigan, most people therefore went at least 40. We were pushing 30. It felt like we were moving in slow motion and I was fairly certain we wouldn’t make it home before dark at the rate we were going.
Then, an impatient driver zoomed around us, cutting close in front of us in their frustration with our slow pace. My grandpa commented, “Boy, they sure are in a hurry.” While I agreed on the outside, on the inside, I was dying as I thought, “I wish we were....”
I loved my grandpa. He definitely marched to the beat of his own drum and didn’t care much about what others thought of him. As a former police officer, he still followed the law to the letter and seemed surprised when others did not follow suit.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Saturday Extras!
Prompt: What is your
favorite meal you cook yourself? Write a recipe for it.
Probably my Chinese
fried rice is my favorite meal that I cook for myself. Here is my own recipe
for it.
Ingredients:
- rice
- soy sauce
- powdered bean
soup mix
- egg
- green pepper
- onion
- carrot
- broccoli
- plantain
- garlic powder
1. Make the rice as
per usual.
2. While the rice
is cooking, chop up the green pepper, onion, carrot, broccoli, and plantain.
3. When the rice is
almost done cooking, add some water and the dried bean soup mix and stir.
4. Turn off rice
maker, but keep the cover closed so it stays toasty.
5. Sauté the green
pepper, onion, carrot, broccoli, and plaintain.
6. Once cooked,
push said vegetables into a wide circle.
7. Cook the egg in
the middle of the vegetables.
8. Toss the rice
onto the griddle with everything else.
9. Add a generous
amount of soy sauce and garlic powder.
10. Mix them
together.
11. Put them on a
plate.
12. Eat them.
13. Rinse and
repeat.
Prompt: Write about a time
you found something that was a treasure to you.
Melody Joy wrote:
When I was in
college, I had large gaps in between my classes during which I had plenty of
time to explore the woods that were there on the widespread campus. There were
paths that wound through the woods where I would frequently see families of
deer that were more/less used to humans and would often stare at me for a long
time and rarely move away.
On one of my first
trips out into the woods, I discovered something that would become a treasure
to me during my college days. It was a tree that someone had nailed boards
into, making a ladder right up the trunk to several of the branches that were
perfect to sit and relax on. I would spend countless hours out in those woods,
usually to visit “my” tree.
On more than one
occasion, I watched other students from my vantage point, and I would
frequently bring a lunch out there with me to eat up in the tree. Once I found
a raccoon sleeping out on a limb, so I climbed up and pet the back of the
sleeping animal, who responded by lazily crawling into the hollow trunk and out
of my reach.
Prompt: Write a story about
the person who tries on these shoes only to discover they grant superpowers to
the wearer.
Dana Lee wrote:
Angel May Mercy had everything she could ever ask for in the world. She was born into a wealthy family and given all the opportunities in the world. Before she had reached the age of 10, Angel had seen all the counties in the world. With this being said, Angel was not very bright. She could not read or add simple math problems. It had always been done for her. She had a teacher that came with the family on trips so she could still be educated. However, the teachers were more like nannies. They were paid to give her good grades so she could move to the next grade. They also made sure Angel didn't get into trouble.
Angel May Mercy had everything she could ever ask for in the world. She was born into a wealthy family and given all the opportunities in the world. Before she had reached the age of 10, Angel had seen all the counties in the world. With this being said, Angel was not very bright. She could not read or add simple math problems. It had always been done for her. She had a teacher that came with the family on trips so she could still be educated. However, the teachers were more like nannies. They were paid to give her good grades so she could move to the next grade. They also made sure Angel didn't get into trouble.
One day, Angel was shopping for an outfit for a ball in the
annual world ball which was being held in the United Kingdom this year. She was
promised a husband if she attended the ball. All of a sudden she found the most
amazing shoes. She knew that would match her dress and be perfect for the ball.
She would definitely be the talk of town and catch the most eligible of
bachelors.
**Three days later**
Angel's mother was helping her to prepare for the big event. Her
hair was done, her dress was on. The only thing missing was her shoes. As soon
as she put them on she began to feel funny. She could not figure out what was
wrong with her. However, she did not want to miss the ball so she decided to
ignore it. She arrived to the ball just in time to dance with Prince Thaddeus
of Mozambique. They began talking while they were dancing and she was surprised
at how much information she knew and how smart she was. She had no idea how she
was able to carry on such an intellectual conversation. She knew it had to be
the shoes. She knew if she were to convince him to marry her that she could
never take off the shoes. She did not want him to know how dumb she really was.
**One year later**
Angel and Thaddeus were married in the United Kingdom where they
first met. That night she knew she would have to take off her shoes for the
first time in a year. They went to the honeymoon sweet to consummate their
marriage. She took her shoes off and took a deep breath. She hoped he would
love her for her and not the intelligence he thought she had. Something amazing
happened though! The knowledge she gained from the shoes somehow stayed with
her. She knew the shoes would also be there for her when she needed them but
Thaddeus was her one true love.
Prompt: What is your favorite body of water? (Could
be one in particular or a general type.) Write about being adrift there.
Pope Jon:
So when you're this size, I think what you want to hope for, and this is the only time your hope for this, is for someone to clog the toilet. And then you pray for another thing that you never want to pray for again: you pray that that sicko just walks away. Now you've got a chance of getting free. I really don't think I need to add many more details, but I will anyway. Look for corn, hope that some of the toilet paper is dry, and try to find a path via the stains left behind.
The only other way out is down. Luckily I discovered something useful with the power of Google and my own disturbing thoughts: you could totally live down there! Rats to it all the time, so you might have to battle one of those. If you've been shrunk with your siblings, try offering the youngest as tribute instead. If you're the youngest, offer yourself as tribute and don't look up what tribute means.
Your humble abode. Well, it's the rat's humble abode now, but little Timmy is a worthy trade.
So I think you just kinda move into the part that goes upward, wait for someone to clog it, and harvest what you can! Unlimited water supply is a guarantee. Plus, you can relieve yourself whenever you need to, just make sure you aim it in the proper direction. You could probably carve parts of the ceramic out to make more room for yourself, just be sure not to go too far or you'll risk the structural integrity of your home!
Good luck to you! I'm glad this prompt didn't require me to write in first person!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Pope Jon:
Before I finished reading the prompt, I thought of toilet water
because I am very grateful for it. Then I finished reading it... but once a
bizarre idea has take root, it's too late for me to turn back. Is anything less
expected of me?
I think in order to be adrift in toilet water, you either have to be small enough to fit in one, or you have to just be normal sized, but have a foot or something stuck in a toilet. But it's more fun to assume you're small enough to actually fit inside, we're going to go with this: you've been shrunken by Rick Moranis. Well, by the character he plays in that movie, but no one cares about the name of the character.
Fine, it's Wayne Szalinzki, now don't waste your time looking it up. Also, how classic is this movie?!
So when you're this size, I think what you want to hope for, and this is the only time your hope for this, is for someone to clog the toilet. And then you pray for another thing that you never want to pray for again: you pray that that sicko just walks away. Now you've got a chance of getting free. I really don't think I need to add many more details, but I will anyway. Look for corn, hope that some of the toilet paper is dry, and try to find a path via the stains left behind.
The only other way out is down. Luckily I discovered something useful with the power of Google and my own disturbing thoughts: you could totally live down there! Rats to it all the time, so you might have to battle one of those. If you've been shrunk with your siblings, try offering the youngest as tribute instead. If you're the youngest, offer yourself as tribute and don't look up what tribute means.
Your humble abode. Well, it's the rat's humble abode now, but little Timmy is a worthy trade.
So I think you just kinda move into the part that goes upward, wait for someone to clog it, and harvest what you can! Unlimited water supply is a guarantee. Plus, you can relieve yourself whenever you need to, just make sure you aim it in the proper direction. You could probably carve parts of the ceramic out to make more room for yourself, just be sure not to go too far or you'll risk the structural integrity of your home!
Good luck to you! I'm glad this prompt didn't require me to write in first person!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Friday Favorites - Adrift!
What is your favorite body of water? (Could be one in particular or a general type.) Write about being adrift there.
Dana Lee wrote:
My favorite body of water is the Tahquamenon falls. I went as a child with my parents and they are just beautiful.
If I were to be adrift there I imagine it would be nothing less than amazing. I imagine never being thirsty because I would just drink the water all day. I assume it tastes like root beer. I would lay in the water at night, put my head back, and just let the water take me wherever it wants. When tourists come to see the falls, I would be known as that girl who lives in the falls and it would be pretty amazing.
Chuck C. wrote:
Of all the bodies of water that I have been to, Lake Michigan is by far the most beautiful. The scene of the sun setting of the west coast of Michigan is, in my mind, one of the most moving scenes in God's creation. The warm orange glow rolling over the blue water while the cool breeze washes over you is in experience everyone should have. If you ever get the chance, make it up to Sleeping Bear Dunes. I promise you won’t regret it.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite body of water would have to be the ocean. I don’t have any one in particular since I haven’t spent enough times at enough oceans to pick a favorite, but I would prefer someplace tropical. Being adrift in the ocean would be the most dangerous simply because of a lack of access to clean drinking water. Just the same, I don’t think I would mind too much to be adrift on the ocean for a little while, with the waves bouncing me up and down and the possibility of seeing whales, dolphins, and even sharks. Who knows? Maybe I would be rescued by a whale and we could become best friends forever. I’ve always wanted to be best friends with a whale.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dana Lee wrote:
My favorite body of water is the Tahquamenon falls. I went as a child with my parents and they are just beautiful.
If I were to be adrift there I imagine it would be nothing less than amazing. I imagine never being thirsty because I would just drink the water all day. I assume it tastes like root beer. I would lay in the water at night, put my head back, and just let the water take me wherever it wants. When tourists come to see the falls, I would be known as that girl who lives in the falls and it would be pretty amazing.
Photo courtesy of: Don Flett
Chuck C. wrote:
Of all the bodies of water that I have been to, Lake Michigan is by far the most beautiful. The scene of the sun setting of the west coast of Michigan is, in my mind, one of the most moving scenes in God's creation. The warm orange glow rolling over the blue water while the cool breeze washes over you is in experience everyone should have. If you ever get the chance, make it up to Sleeping Bear Dunes. I promise you won’t regret it.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite body of water would have to be the ocean. I don’t have any one in particular since I haven’t spent enough times at enough oceans to pick a favorite, but I would prefer someplace tropical. Being adrift in the ocean would be the most dangerous simply because of a lack of access to clean drinking water. Just the same, I don’t think I would mind too much to be adrift on the ocean for a little while, with the waves bouncing me up and down and the possibility of seeing whales, dolphins, and even sharks. Who knows? Maybe I would be rescued by a whale and we could become best friends forever. I’ve always wanted to be best friends with a whale.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Wacky Wednesday - Superpowered Shoes (PICTURE PROMPT!)
Today's Prompt: Write a story about the person who tries on these shoes only to discover they grant superpowers to the wearer.
Melody Joy wrote:
Heather looked down at her exam scores, mostly C’s with a few B’s sprinkled in and that one A in choir that she knew she had earned just by showing up most days. It was such a joke that it was almost funny. She sighed and thought, “Well, I guess being average is better than being nothing.” Even as she thought it and allowed herself to be comforted by that fact, she wondered if it was true.
Her older brother, on the other hand, was extraordinary. He always had been. He was just two and a half years her senior and yet was four full grade levels ahead, set to graduate from high school this year at the impressive age of 14. He was also lettering in track, despite having to compete with students several years older than him.
She was nearly home from school when the old woman stepped out of the bus right in front of her. Heather tried to avoid a collision, but it was too late. She bumped into the elderly woman and threw herself to the side, ending up in a heap on the sidewalk, her backpack catching most of it, but her elbow taking a pretty good hit nonetheless. The old woman peered down at her suspiciously through round wire-rimmed glasses and didn’t appear to have been affected by the bump at all.
Heather mumbled her apologies as she picked herself and her report card off the sidewalk. Her elbow smarted, and she was fairly certain it would start bleeding soon if it hadn’t already. The old woman stopped her before she could turn away, and she looked dumbly at the old woman, feeling more and more embarrassed as the woman eyed her carefully.
Heather’s eyes dropped to the ground where her eyes fell upon the most outrageous pair of shoes she had ever seen. Controlling the urge to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of this otherwise typical old woman, she looked back up as the woman spoke to her again.
“I want you to have them,” she said.
Heather looked at her in confusion.
“The shoes,” the old woman insisted, “I feel it’s time I passed them on so someone else can enjoy them.”
“No.... That’s okay, really,” Heather mumbled, “They’re not really my style.”
“I think you’ll find they are. They’re even more extraordinary than they appear, just like you.”
By then, the old woman had removed them from her feet and was standing on the sidewalk in her stockings, now nearly 5 inches shorter than she had been before. She bent down and gathered them carefully, then ceremoniously passed them over to Heather.
Embarrassment burning hotter on the back of Heather’s neck as several passers-by snickered, she accepted the gift and walked off in a hurry. The old woman’s voice followed after her, calling out, “Put them on when you get home. Ask your brother what he thinks of them.”
It wasn’t until Heather was actually home that she realized how strange it was that the strange old woman had known about her brother. Maybe the woman was crazy. After all, she had just given the most outrageous pair of shoes ever to a stranger to walk home in stocking feet.
After dinner, curiosity got the best of her and Heather tried the shoes on. Despite being certain that the little old lady had to have had significantly smaller feet than her own, the shoes fit perfectly. And despite having never really worn real heals before, they were surprisingly comfortable and easy to walk in. She still felt ridiculous in them, though.
Wanting to tell someone about her adventure, she went into her brother’s room. He was bent over his desk, his room immaculate as ever. Several textbooks were open on the desk in front of him and the computer screens were filled with more information. He had his headphones on, and was bobbing his head erratically, most likely to Mozart.
Heather approached him slowly, and touched his shoulder to get his attention. In that moment, something extraordinary happened. Time seemed to stand still and she was suddenly hearing his thoughts and feeling what he felt. The thoughts and memories and feelings overwhelmed her.
“Why can’t I be more like Heather? Heather doesn’t get stuck doing homework for three hours a day, and they don’t expect perfection out of her. Sometimes I just wish I was a normal kid and allowed to do normal things. I know intelligence is a gift, but I don’t want it anymore. I’m going to do it. I know where Mom’s sleeping pills are and I know how many I need to take to die. Forget this homework. I’m going to do it now. If I wait any longer, I’m going to lose my nerve.”
Heather gasped and pulled her hand away from Brogan’s shoulder as if she had been burned. He jerked away from her in the same manner, leaping up and turning around to face her, hands raised slightly as if to fend off an attack. There were tears streaming down his cheeks that he moved quickly to remove.
“I had no idea you felt that way,” Heather said at last.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“There’s nothing wrong with being extraordinary, and being ordinary isn’t any better or worse. If you feel that much pressure, then tell Mom and Dad that you don’t want to do it anymore. Killing yourself is not the answer.”
Heather’s life changed forever in that moment as she held her big brother as he wept in her arms. She held him until their parents came and the whole story spilled out. From then on, she wore those shoes every day and touched as many people as she could. To this day, nobody knows how many lives she has saved or simply changed for the better because of the strangest shoes in the world.
Pope Jon wrote:
Chuck Jack Savage had always been the manliest of men. He was a lumberjack by trade, and a woodsmen by choice. He wrestled bears into submission for recreation and rode a buffalo to work each day. It has been said that his beard could grate cheese and his blood was actually pure whiskey.
But heroes rarely look the same from start to finish. In fact, Charles Jackson Savageton , as his mother would call him, would've never known that the shoes his niece gave him would change his life forever.
Before he put them on, he checked to make sure no one was around, despite the fact that he lived alone. He was an honest man, and wanted to be able to tell his niece that he'd tried them on. With a mighty sigh and a shake of his head, he slipped the shoe on, and let out a gasp.
He had become Charley J. Savvy, the Lumbersexual Loverboy.
He gained powers of fashion, fortitude, and fabulousness. With a sassy crack of his neck, Charley caught sight of his reflection, and willed his beard to trim itself. He quickly mended all of his clothes to be overflowing with style and attitude, and set off to save the world.
Neither words nor bullets could ever harm the Lumbersexual, and his mastery with a chainsaw and an axe had not faded. The chainsaw and axe just had a better look to them now. Mahogany trims with mother of pearl inlaid on the handles, plus adorable home-stitched covers!
Having united with his feminine side, Charles was finally able to woe his sweetheart, and the two lived out their days in the cabin he build with his own two hands. He had decorated it with his unique sense of style, or course.
Chuck C. wrote:
It was a sunny day. Jane was waltzing her way down her street when her eyes caught a small ragged box. It was nothing special. In fact, she didn't really know why she noticed it at all. An even greater mystery was what possessed her to pick it up. She cracked the box open and her eyes were overwhelmed with a prismatic burst of color.
They were, quite simply, the most colorful, vibrant shoes she had ever seen. She could not resist grabbing them and putting them on. As soon as she did her vision was awash with every color in the rainbow. Her hands glowed with a colored fire. The fire leaped from her hands and struck a passerby, causing their body to bind and fall to the ground.
She ran over to them, and to her relief, they were still alive. In fact they seemed to be locked into a state of bliss. Jane then realized how she could use her new found gift. She now spends her days finding sad people and blasting them with a rainbow, spreading bliss and joy of color.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Melody Joy wrote:
Heather looked down at her exam scores, mostly C’s with a few B’s sprinkled in and that one A in choir that she knew she had earned just by showing up most days. It was such a joke that it was almost funny. She sighed and thought, “Well, I guess being average is better than being nothing.” Even as she thought it and allowed herself to be comforted by that fact, she wondered if it was true.
Her older brother, on the other hand, was extraordinary. He always had been. He was just two and a half years her senior and yet was four full grade levels ahead, set to graduate from high school this year at the impressive age of 14. He was also lettering in track, despite having to compete with students several years older than him.
She was nearly home from school when the old woman stepped out of the bus right in front of her. Heather tried to avoid a collision, but it was too late. She bumped into the elderly woman and threw herself to the side, ending up in a heap on the sidewalk, her backpack catching most of it, but her elbow taking a pretty good hit nonetheless. The old woman peered down at her suspiciously through round wire-rimmed glasses and didn’t appear to have been affected by the bump at all.
Heather mumbled her apologies as she picked herself and her report card off the sidewalk. Her elbow smarted, and she was fairly certain it would start bleeding soon if it hadn’t already. The old woman stopped her before she could turn away, and she looked dumbly at the old woman, feeling more and more embarrassed as the woman eyed her carefully.
Heather’s eyes dropped to the ground where her eyes fell upon the most outrageous pair of shoes she had ever seen. Controlling the urge to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of this otherwise typical old woman, she looked back up as the woman spoke to her again.
“I want you to have them,” she said.
Heather looked at her in confusion.
“The shoes,” the old woman insisted, “I feel it’s time I passed them on so someone else can enjoy them.”
“No.... That’s okay, really,” Heather mumbled, “They’re not really my style.”
“I think you’ll find they are. They’re even more extraordinary than they appear, just like you.”
By then, the old woman had removed them from her feet and was standing on the sidewalk in her stockings, now nearly 5 inches shorter than she had been before. She bent down and gathered them carefully, then ceremoniously passed them over to Heather.
Embarrassment burning hotter on the back of Heather’s neck as several passers-by snickered, she accepted the gift and walked off in a hurry. The old woman’s voice followed after her, calling out, “Put them on when you get home. Ask your brother what he thinks of them.”
It wasn’t until Heather was actually home that she realized how strange it was that the strange old woman had known about her brother. Maybe the woman was crazy. After all, she had just given the most outrageous pair of shoes ever to a stranger to walk home in stocking feet.
After dinner, curiosity got the best of her and Heather tried the shoes on. Despite being certain that the little old lady had to have had significantly smaller feet than her own, the shoes fit perfectly. And despite having never really worn real heals before, they were surprisingly comfortable and easy to walk in. She still felt ridiculous in them, though.
Wanting to tell someone about her adventure, she went into her brother’s room. He was bent over his desk, his room immaculate as ever. Several textbooks were open on the desk in front of him and the computer screens were filled with more information. He had his headphones on, and was bobbing his head erratically, most likely to Mozart.
Heather approached him slowly, and touched his shoulder to get his attention. In that moment, something extraordinary happened. Time seemed to stand still and she was suddenly hearing his thoughts and feeling what he felt. The thoughts and memories and feelings overwhelmed her.
“Why can’t I be more like Heather? Heather doesn’t get stuck doing homework for three hours a day, and they don’t expect perfection out of her. Sometimes I just wish I was a normal kid and allowed to do normal things. I know intelligence is a gift, but I don’t want it anymore. I’m going to do it. I know where Mom’s sleeping pills are and I know how many I need to take to die. Forget this homework. I’m going to do it now. If I wait any longer, I’m going to lose my nerve.”
Heather gasped and pulled her hand away from Brogan’s shoulder as if she had been burned. He jerked away from her in the same manner, leaping up and turning around to face her, hands raised slightly as if to fend off an attack. There were tears streaming down his cheeks that he moved quickly to remove.
“I had no idea you felt that way,” Heather said at last.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“There’s nothing wrong with being extraordinary, and being ordinary isn’t any better or worse. If you feel that much pressure, then tell Mom and Dad that you don’t want to do it anymore. Killing yourself is not the answer.”
Heather’s life changed forever in that moment as she held her big brother as he wept in her arms. She held him until their parents came and the whole story spilled out. From then on, she wore those shoes every day and touched as many people as she could. To this day, nobody knows how many lives she has saved or simply changed for the better because of the strangest shoes in the world.
Pope Jon wrote:
Chuck Jack Savage had always been the manliest of men. He was a lumberjack by trade, and a woodsmen by choice. He wrestled bears into submission for recreation and rode a buffalo to work each day. It has been said that his beard could grate cheese and his blood was actually pure whiskey.
But heroes rarely look the same from start to finish. In fact, Charles Jackson Savageton , as his mother would call him, would've never known that the shoes his niece gave him would change his life forever.
Before he put them on, he checked to make sure no one was around, despite the fact that he lived alone. He was an honest man, and wanted to be able to tell his niece that he'd tried them on. With a mighty sigh and a shake of his head, he slipped the shoe on, and let out a gasp.
He had become Charley J. Savvy, the Lumbersexual Loverboy.
He gained powers of fashion, fortitude, and fabulousness. With a sassy crack of his neck, Charley caught sight of his reflection, and willed his beard to trim itself. He quickly mended all of his clothes to be overflowing with style and attitude, and set off to save the world.
Neither words nor bullets could ever harm the Lumbersexual, and his mastery with a chainsaw and an axe had not faded. The chainsaw and axe just had a better look to them now. Mahogany trims with mother of pearl inlaid on the handles, plus adorable home-stitched covers!
Having united with his feminine side, Charles was finally able to woe his sweetheart, and the two lived out their days in the cabin he build with his own two hands. He had decorated it with his unique sense of style, or course.
Chuck C. wrote:
It was a sunny day. Jane was waltzing her way down her street when her eyes caught a small ragged box. It was nothing special. In fact, she didn't really know why she noticed it at all. An even greater mystery was what possessed her to pick it up. She cracked the box open and her eyes were overwhelmed with a prismatic burst of color.
They were, quite simply, the most colorful, vibrant shoes she had ever seen. She could not resist grabbing them and putting them on. As soon as she did her vision was awash with every color in the rainbow. Her hands glowed with a colored fire. The fire leaped from her hands and struck a passerby, causing their body to bind and fall to the ground.
She ran over to them, and to her relief, they were still alive. In fact they seemed to be locked into a state of bliss. Jane then realized how she could use her new found gift. She now spends her days finding sad people and blasting them with a rainbow, spreading bliss and joy of color.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Monday, March 23, 2015
All About Me Monday - Lost and Found
Today's prompt: Write about a time you found something that was a treasure to you.
Dana Lee:
When I was younger I had this favorite dinosaur stuffed animal. I was probably about six or seven at the time. I took this thing everywhere. In hindsight I am not sure why because it was an ugly thing. One day I brought it to my best friend's house so we could play with it. I don't remember how but it got dropped in the mud. Her mom told me she would wash it for me but I never saw it again until....
A few months later I walked to the Saint Vincent DePaul thrift store. I was looking in the bin of cheap toys. I believe they were fifty cents each. In this bin I found my beloved dinosaur stuffed animal that I had forgotten about until that point. I was so excited. I ran to my mom and asked her if I could please have it because I loved it so much.
To this day I have no idea where that dinosaur is. I hope it is in the hands of another child and they appreciate it as much as I did.
Chuck C. wrote:
It was a rainy day. I had just completed the day’s labors and was quite famished. Could I go to McDonald's and get a quick burger? Sure. That day though, I was in a bit of an exploratory mood. Not too far from the kitchen I worked at was a small Cantonese place called Wei Wei Palace. I had seen it before but had never made it in.
With a freshly supplied bank account and a mean appetite, I sat down in the gaudily decorated restaurant and my nose was overwhelmed with the smell of duck roasting. I instantly fell in love. I ordered the roasted duck and the dim sum. It was, quite simply, the most amazing duck I'd ever had. Crispy skin, cooked perfectly and seasoned just right. The dim sum was fresh, the meat filled dumpling was perfectly steamed. Its filling was sweet and meaty. As I write this I wish am getting the overwhelming urge to head up there right now.....so......
Pope Jon wrote:
I think this will actually apply to a lot of people, but hopefully that'll make it all the more meaningful.
When I was younger, so much younger than today, I lacked the sophistication of a bank account. So instead of finding a piggy or another barnyard creature to keep my money safe, I instead decided to hide my money in various spots so that no one could ever find it- including me!
Years later, as I cleaned out old rubbish or decided to look through forgotten memories, I'd discover money stuffed inside boxes of my old stuff, beneath my underwear, or hidden among school awards. You know, stuff nobody but myself ever sees.
Anyway, I'm sure we've all had the joy of discovering some extra cash stashed in your pants or under your car seat, but I found $20 bills hidden away on several occasions. Sometimes I wonder if I still have money laying around somewhere, or if one of my siblings found it...
SIde note: If you find any money among old family things, dear kin, it's totally mine. You can trust me, I'm a Pope!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dana Lee:
When I was younger I had this favorite dinosaur stuffed animal. I was probably about six or seven at the time. I took this thing everywhere. In hindsight I am not sure why because it was an ugly thing. One day I brought it to my best friend's house so we could play with it. I don't remember how but it got dropped in the mud. Her mom told me she would wash it for me but I never saw it again until....
A few months later I walked to the Saint Vincent DePaul thrift store. I was looking in the bin of cheap toys. I believe they were fifty cents each. In this bin I found my beloved dinosaur stuffed animal that I had forgotten about until that point. I was so excited. I ran to my mom and asked her if I could please have it because I loved it so much.
To this day I have no idea where that dinosaur is. I hope it is in the hands of another child and they appreciate it as much as I did.
Chuck C. wrote:
It was a rainy day. I had just completed the day’s labors and was quite famished. Could I go to McDonald's and get a quick burger? Sure. That day though, I was in a bit of an exploratory mood. Not too far from the kitchen I worked at was a small Cantonese place called Wei Wei Palace. I had seen it before but had never made it in.
With a freshly supplied bank account and a mean appetite, I sat down in the gaudily decorated restaurant and my nose was overwhelmed with the smell of duck roasting. I instantly fell in love. I ordered the roasted duck and the dim sum. It was, quite simply, the most amazing duck I'd ever had. Crispy skin, cooked perfectly and seasoned just right. The dim sum was fresh, the meat filled dumpling was perfectly steamed. Its filling was sweet and meaty. As I write this I wish am getting the overwhelming urge to head up there right now.....so......
Pope Jon wrote:
I think this will actually apply to a lot of people, but hopefully that'll make it all the more meaningful.
When I was younger, so much younger than today, I lacked the sophistication of a bank account. So instead of finding a piggy or another barnyard creature to keep my money safe, I instead decided to hide my money in various spots so that no one could ever find it- including me!
Years later, as I cleaned out old rubbish or decided to look through forgotten memories, I'd discover money stuffed inside boxes of my old stuff, beneath my underwear, or hidden among school awards. You know, stuff nobody but myself ever sees.
Anyway, I'm sure we've all had the joy of discovering some extra cash stashed in your pants or under your car seat, but I found $20 bills hidden away on several occasions. Sometimes I wonder if I still have money laying around somewhere, or if one of my siblings found it...
SIde note: If you find any money among old family things, dear kin, it's totally mine. You can trust me, I'm a Pope!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Friday Favorites - Recipe Sharing Time
Today's prompt: What is your favorite meal you cook yourself? Write a recipe for it.
Chuck C. wrote:
This is a meal that’s perfect for a bachelor. With a well-stocked spice cabinet and about 10-15 dollars in materials, you can make a meal that will feed you all week that’s full of protein and full of flavor. Try it, and thank me later.
Chuck-wagon Mess 'o Beans.
½ pound of Pinto beans
½ Great Northern Beans
3 cups of chicken stock
1 can PBR (or other light Lager/Pilsner. Mexican Cervesas work well too)
2 good sized ham-hocks
½ cup Dark Brown Sugar
1 large yellow onion, chopped
6-8 garlic cloves, rough chopped
1 chopped jalapeno (exlcude if you have not the Constitution of real men)
1 chopped Pablano peppers
1 tablespoon cumin
1 tablespoon smoked paprika
Salt and Pepper to taste
Place the ham-hocks in a large crockpot. Rinse the beans thoroughly in a colander, watching out for small stones that can sometimes be found. Pour them over the ham hocks. Place the vegetation over the beans and ham-hocks. Dump the spices and brown sugar over the beans. Pour the beer and the stock over the whole bit. Stir gently, making sure the ham-hocks remain submerged as best as possible. Place the crock pot on high and let it go for 6-7 hours, stirring occasionally until the beans are soft and tender and there is little left of the ham-hocks. Do your best to get the bones out from the ham-hocks and serve over rice or just in a bowl.
Pope Jon wrote:
There are a lot of steps to making “Pope Jon’s Ultimate Quesadillas of America: Baconzilla vs. Cheesepocalypse (Lethal Awesomeness Edition),” so try to keep up.
And I’m not numbering them because I don’t feel like it, and this is my recipe, so back off.
Frying pan.
Stove.
Turn the heat up, but not that much.
Tortilla.
Cheese.
Bacon.
Meat.
Other crap you may or may not want inside.
Bacon.
Cheese.
Bend tortilla in half. (If you need me to explain that you keep the ingredients inside, start over and add more bacon this time.)
Another Tortilla.
Repeat all the ingredients, and don’t whine about them not being listed again.
Realize you forgot to play some sick cooking music, and run off in a panic to get some tunes flowing.
Get there just in time to save them from being burnt.
Now put a bunch of cheese on the outside of the tortillas.
Get into your music like no one is watching. (Upbeat, loud music is recommended.)
Remove tortillas and repeat steps as necessary until you have enough.
Rinse out pan while still hot to see the water sizzle.
Forget to put ingredients away for a few hours.
Return to put ingredients away.
Realize you’re hungry again.
Repeat all steps, except don’t forget the music this time.
Dana Lee:
Thanks to my time working at a sandwich place, I fell in love with the creation of French bread pizza.
Ingredients:
• Day old bread from Jimmy Johns
• Pizza sauce of any variety
• Oregano
• Extra virgin olive oil
• Mozzarella cheese
• Toppings of your choosing
Directions:
1. Cover a cookie sheet with aluminum foil.
2. Cut the bread in half then cut it open as if you were making a sandwich but all the way open.
3. Drizzle olive oil in a zig zag pattern over the bread to lightly coat it.
4. Gently cover with oregano sprinkling it over the oregano. You can use as much or as little as you want.
5. Using a spoon, dish out pizza sauce and spread pizza sauce across the top of the bread.
6. Put on all your toppings. (They stay better when they are covered with cheese.) I mean load that baby up! It should be overflowing with toppings!!
7. Go crazy with the cheese! The more cheese the better. You can never have too much!
8. Place on cookie sheet.
9. Turn your oven broiler in low.
10. Cook for 3-5 minutes. But make sure you are watching it so it doesn't burn.
11. Seriously just sit and watch it cook. You'll regret it if you don't.
12. Let cool (or not, it's your choice).
13. Enjoy!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Chuck C. wrote:
This is a meal that’s perfect for a bachelor. With a well-stocked spice cabinet and about 10-15 dollars in materials, you can make a meal that will feed you all week that’s full of protein and full of flavor. Try it, and thank me later.
Chuck-wagon Mess 'o Beans.
½ pound of Pinto beans
½ Great Northern Beans
3 cups of chicken stock
1 can PBR (or other light Lager/Pilsner. Mexican Cervesas work well too)
2 good sized ham-hocks
½ cup Dark Brown Sugar
1 large yellow onion, chopped
6-8 garlic cloves, rough chopped
1 chopped jalapeno (exlcude if you have not the Constitution of real men)
1 chopped Pablano peppers
1 tablespoon cumin
1 tablespoon smoked paprika
Salt and Pepper to taste
Place the ham-hocks in a large crockpot. Rinse the beans thoroughly in a colander, watching out for small stones that can sometimes be found. Pour them over the ham hocks. Place the vegetation over the beans and ham-hocks. Dump the spices and brown sugar over the beans. Pour the beer and the stock over the whole bit. Stir gently, making sure the ham-hocks remain submerged as best as possible. Place the crock pot on high and let it go for 6-7 hours, stirring occasionally until the beans are soft and tender and there is little left of the ham-hocks. Do your best to get the bones out from the ham-hocks and serve over rice or just in a bowl.
Pope Jon wrote:
There are a lot of steps to making “Pope Jon’s Ultimate Quesadillas of America: Baconzilla vs. Cheesepocalypse (Lethal Awesomeness Edition),” so try to keep up.
And I’m not numbering them because I don’t feel like it, and this is my recipe, so back off.
Frying pan.
Stove.
Turn the heat up, but not that much.
Tortilla.
Cheese.
Bacon.
Meat.
Other crap you may or may not want inside.
Bacon.
Cheese.
Bend tortilla in half. (If you need me to explain that you keep the ingredients inside, start over and add more bacon this time.)
Another Tortilla.
Repeat all the ingredients, and don’t whine about them not being listed again.
Realize you forgot to play some sick cooking music, and run off in a panic to get some tunes flowing.
Get there just in time to save them from being burnt.
Now put a bunch of cheese on the outside of the tortillas.
Get into your music like no one is watching. (Upbeat, loud music is recommended.)
Remove tortillas and repeat steps as necessary until you have enough.
Rinse out pan while still hot to see the water sizzle.
Forget to put ingredients away for a few hours.
Return to put ingredients away.
Realize you’re hungry again.
Repeat all steps, except don’t forget the music this time.
Dana Lee:
Thanks to my time working at a sandwich place, I fell in love with the creation of French bread pizza.
Ingredients:
• Day old bread from Jimmy Johns
• Pizza sauce of any variety
• Oregano
• Extra virgin olive oil
• Mozzarella cheese
• Toppings of your choosing
Directions:
1. Cover a cookie sheet with aluminum foil.
2. Cut the bread in half then cut it open as if you were making a sandwich but all the way open.
3. Drizzle olive oil in a zig zag pattern over the bread to lightly coat it.
4. Gently cover with oregano sprinkling it over the oregano. You can use as much or as little as you want.
5. Using a spoon, dish out pizza sauce and spread pizza sauce across the top of the bread.
6. Put on all your toppings. (They stay better when they are covered with cheese.) I mean load that baby up! It should be overflowing with toppings!!
7. Go crazy with the cheese! The more cheese the better. You can never have too much!
8. Place on cookie sheet.
9. Turn your oven broiler in low.
10. Cook for 3-5 minutes. But make sure you are watching it so it doesn't burn.
11. Seriously just sit and watch it cook. You'll regret it if you don't.
12. Let cool (or not, it's your choice).
13. Enjoy!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Wacky Wednesday - Ninjas and Fire Stations.
Today's prompt: Write about ninja who sacrifices himself for an abandoned fire station.
Melody Joy wrote:
It had been years since any firefighters had been at fire station 47, but Rinkuta still remembered the brave men who had saved him from the orphanage fire so many years ago. After that day, he had devoted his life to becoming a hero like the men who had saved his life. Now, he steals through the dark streets at night and does his best to stop crime and violence.
Nearly every night, he passed by the abandoned fire station 47 to remember why it was he did what he did. That night, something didn’t feel right. He hid in the shadows, watching and listening for danger. Moments later, two dark figures came out from behind the station, dropping emptied jugs of gasoline. As one of them reached for his pocket, Rinkuta sprinted across the street.
Using his momentum, he launched himself into the air to deliver a neat kick to the hand and torso of the man reaching for his pocket. The man fell to the ground with a cry of surprise as Rinkuta rolled and righted himself, ready for anything. The two men eyed him carefully, the prostate one muttering curses as he stood back up.
Both men pulled guns on the vigilante, so he sprung into action, darting forward to disarm one quicker than he could fire. Hold the man’s broken wrist to his back, Rinkuta stood behind the criminal, preventing his partner from firing on either of them. The man was larger than the ninja, and perhaps as equally strong, but he managed to keep a hold on him due to his knowledge of pressure points. However, to keep the man in between himself and the other man became increasingly difficult.
The other man came in close and used his own training to land several well-placed blows on the struggling ninja. Rinkuta stepped back, slightly dazed and tried to regain himself. He engaged them again in an exchange of blows which ended unexpectedly with the sound of a gunshot. The ninja landed three more blows on his opponents before he felt the pain.
He stumbled backwards and felt the spread of hot, sticky blood wetting the front of his shirt. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, but he still wasn’t able to make himself move fast enough to avoid the oncoming fist that sent him into unconsciousness. When he awoke, his body was on fire and his eyes were blinded by the light of the inferno around him. He passed out again as it started to rain inside the fire station.
Dana Lee wrote:
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kevin McKoodle. I am a ninja by trait but have always dreamt of being a firefighter. I told my parents of my dream when I was but a toddler. I vividly remember them saying, "Kevin, you were born to be a ninja. To be anything else would be ludicrous and break the cycle of life." It was a few years later that I realized they didn't understand the cycle of life.
I live three blocks down from a fire station. I can hear the sirens every night as the firemen race to put out fires all over the city. To me, it is the most beautiful sound. It is music to my ears. Peanut butter to my jelly. I apply for the fire academy every year. Every year I have to take a psychological exam to get in to the academy. Every year after this exam, they give me a new house to stay in for free for months!! I love all the homes they have given me. They are very clean, like a hospital and the walls are so comfortable you can just bounce off of them. They also give me this really nice sweater that just allows me to hug myself all day, everyday. My life couldn't get any better....well it could if I were a fireman. "
"Mr. McKoodle, do you know where you are," the doctor asks.
"Yes, I am in my new home," he replied.
"No, we have talked about this a lot of times. You are in the hospital because you are very sick. Your family all died when you were three years old in a house fire. You were the only one to survive."
"That can't be true! That can't be true," Kevin responded as he began to cry and bounce on the walls, "I need to go to the fire station so that I can save people's lives!"
"I'm sorry, Kevin but that fire station has been closed since right after the fire that killed your family. They did not follow all safety protocol and that cost the lives of your family."
With this being said Kevin declared that he always heard he fire trucks driving by. He knew someday he would be a fireman. He just needed to prove to the people that called themselves doctor that he was able to go home and fight fires as he desired to do so badly.
Chuck C. wrote:
The building was, by all accounts, ramshackle. In its glory days it housed San Francisco’s most elite fire unit, Firehouse 12-12, otherwise known as the Icemen. The Icemen were known as the best fire fighters on the west coast. They had a near-perfect record, having only ever lost one civilian in their entire run. Nowadays though, after the unit had been disbanded due to budget cuts, the once proud building was home to varies undesirable elements.
The neighborhood around it had also seen better days. The local shoe factory that had sustained it had decided to move its operations to China. High unemployment scourged the neighborhood. Drug lords, racketeers, and loan sharks had an iron grip on the area. Their base of operations? The old 12-12 fire house. The bottom floor that once housed two majestic fire trucks now housed tables with many undocumented workers packing and disguising kilos of heroin. Each worker was chained by their feet to posts drilled into the concrete.
Everyone, including the police, knew it was there. They knew its kingpin, known only as “The Firemen,” never left the joint, and it was the single most heavily-armed and guarded locations in San Francisco. Nobody dared approach it without the Fireman's expressed permission.
Until tonight.
The dark figure in a tight black robes slinked along the back side of the building. The two guards patrolling the rear never heard him before he managed to snap their necks. He swung his grappling claw and caught it on the open window. He propelled himself up and swung into it.
The packing house was hard at work, the scaffolding patrolled by oversized guards in black turtlenecks, carrying machine pistols. It seemed their purpose was not so much to repeal invaders, but to prevent escapes. Either way, they had to go.
With grace and deadly accuracy, he landed throwing knifes in all of them. He ran over to the control box, unlocking all the slaved workers. They, though, were not his real purpose. In front of it were two of the beefiest men he had ever seen. Out of throwing knifes, the black clad figure drew his katana and charged the door. The first guard only saw the glint from the blade before it tore his chest open. The second guard barely had time to draw his weapon and fire off an ill-aimed shot, the round burrowing into the black figures shoulder. One stroke of the Katana, though, made a Pez dispenser out of the brawny guard.
The invader pulled from a holster a large syringe and spread a clear gel around the doors frame. In seconds the gel ate through the steel door fell into the room. In the room was only one person, the invaders target. Clad in a black tuxedo, and a smug look on his face, the Fireman looked unfazed. The black figure stood in the door frame.
“Fireman, your reign on this neighborhood is at an end,” he bellowed.
“I think not,” the Fireman said.
The invader charged the drug lord, his katana still dripping with the blood of the fallen guards. The kingpin behind the desk drew a large revolver, leveled against his attacker, and blasted a hole through his chest. The attacker slumped over and fell to the ground lifeless. The Fireman swaggered over and stood over him.
He bent down and whispered in his ear “You will never win.”
“No, you won’t,” the attacker said, he turned over and drove his blade into the Fireman’s neck. His face washed with shock as his eyes bugged out and blood gurgled from his mouth. “Not in my house,” he said. He slumped over and slipped into the dark. His robe opened up, revealing a large snowflake with the letters 12-12 under it tattooed on his chest.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Melody Joy wrote:
It had been years since any firefighters had been at fire station 47, but Rinkuta still remembered the brave men who had saved him from the orphanage fire so many years ago. After that day, he had devoted his life to becoming a hero like the men who had saved his life. Now, he steals through the dark streets at night and does his best to stop crime and violence.
Nearly every night, he passed by the abandoned fire station 47 to remember why it was he did what he did. That night, something didn’t feel right. He hid in the shadows, watching and listening for danger. Moments later, two dark figures came out from behind the station, dropping emptied jugs of gasoline. As one of them reached for his pocket, Rinkuta sprinted across the street.
Using his momentum, he launched himself into the air to deliver a neat kick to the hand and torso of the man reaching for his pocket. The man fell to the ground with a cry of surprise as Rinkuta rolled and righted himself, ready for anything. The two men eyed him carefully, the prostate one muttering curses as he stood back up.
Both men pulled guns on the vigilante, so he sprung into action, darting forward to disarm one quicker than he could fire. Hold the man’s broken wrist to his back, Rinkuta stood behind the criminal, preventing his partner from firing on either of them. The man was larger than the ninja, and perhaps as equally strong, but he managed to keep a hold on him due to his knowledge of pressure points. However, to keep the man in between himself and the other man became increasingly difficult.
The other man came in close and used his own training to land several well-placed blows on the struggling ninja. Rinkuta stepped back, slightly dazed and tried to regain himself. He engaged them again in an exchange of blows which ended unexpectedly with the sound of a gunshot. The ninja landed three more blows on his opponents before he felt the pain.
He stumbled backwards and felt the spread of hot, sticky blood wetting the front of his shirt. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, but he still wasn’t able to make himself move fast enough to avoid the oncoming fist that sent him into unconsciousness. When he awoke, his body was on fire and his eyes were blinded by the light of the inferno around him. He passed out again as it started to rain inside the fire station.
Dana Lee wrote:
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kevin McKoodle. I am a ninja by trait but have always dreamt of being a firefighter. I told my parents of my dream when I was but a toddler. I vividly remember them saying, "Kevin, you were born to be a ninja. To be anything else would be ludicrous and break the cycle of life." It was a few years later that I realized they didn't understand the cycle of life.
I live three blocks down from a fire station. I can hear the sirens every night as the firemen race to put out fires all over the city. To me, it is the most beautiful sound. It is music to my ears. Peanut butter to my jelly. I apply for the fire academy every year. Every year I have to take a psychological exam to get in to the academy. Every year after this exam, they give me a new house to stay in for free for months!! I love all the homes they have given me. They are very clean, like a hospital and the walls are so comfortable you can just bounce off of them. They also give me this really nice sweater that just allows me to hug myself all day, everyday. My life couldn't get any better....well it could if I were a fireman. "
"Mr. McKoodle, do you know where you are," the doctor asks.
"Yes, I am in my new home," he replied.
"No, we have talked about this a lot of times. You are in the hospital because you are very sick. Your family all died when you were three years old in a house fire. You were the only one to survive."
"That can't be true! That can't be true," Kevin responded as he began to cry and bounce on the walls, "I need to go to the fire station so that I can save people's lives!"
"I'm sorry, Kevin but that fire station has been closed since right after the fire that killed your family. They did not follow all safety protocol and that cost the lives of your family."
With this being said Kevin declared that he always heard he fire trucks driving by. He knew someday he would be a fireman. He just needed to prove to the people that called themselves doctor that he was able to go home and fight fires as he desired to do so badly.
Chuck C. wrote:
The building was, by all accounts, ramshackle. In its glory days it housed San Francisco’s most elite fire unit, Firehouse 12-12, otherwise known as the Icemen. The Icemen were known as the best fire fighters on the west coast. They had a near-perfect record, having only ever lost one civilian in their entire run. Nowadays though, after the unit had been disbanded due to budget cuts, the once proud building was home to varies undesirable elements.
The neighborhood around it had also seen better days. The local shoe factory that had sustained it had decided to move its operations to China. High unemployment scourged the neighborhood. Drug lords, racketeers, and loan sharks had an iron grip on the area. Their base of operations? The old 12-12 fire house. The bottom floor that once housed two majestic fire trucks now housed tables with many undocumented workers packing and disguising kilos of heroin. Each worker was chained by their feet to posts drilled into the concrete.
Everyone, including the police, knew it was there. They knew its kingpin, known only as “The Firemen,” never left the joint, and it was the single most heavily-armed and guarded locations in San Francisco. Nobody dared approach it without the Fireman's expressed permission.
Until tonight.
The dark figure in a tight black robes slinked along the back side of the building. The two guards patrolling the rear never heard him before he managed to snap their necks. He swung his grappling claw and caught it on the open window. He propelled himself up and swung into it.
The packing house was hard at work, the scaffolding patrolled by oversized guards in black turtlenecks, carrying machine pistols. It seemed their purpose was not so much to repeal invaders, but to prevent escapes. Either way, they had to go.
With grace and deadly accuracy, he landed throwing knifes in all of them. He ran over to the control box, unlocking all the slaved workers. They, though, were not his real purpose. In front of it were two of the beefiest men he had ever seen. Out of throwing knifes, the black clad figure drew his katana and charged the door. The first guard only saw the glint from the blade before it tore his chest open. The second guard barely had time to draw his weapon and fire off an ill-aimed shot, the round burrowing into the black figures shoulder. One stroke of the Katana, though, made a Pez dispenser out of the brawny guard.
The invader pulled from a holster a large syringe and spread a clear gel around the doors frame. In seconds the gel ate through the steel door fell into the room. In the room was only one person, the invaders target. Clad in a black tuxedo, and a smug look on his face, the Fireman looked unfazed. The black figure stood in the door frame.
“Fireman, your reign on this neighborhood is at an end,” he bellowed.
“I think not,” the Fireman said.
The invader charged the drug lord, his katana still dripping with the blood of the fallen guards. The kingpin behind the desk drew a large revolver, leveled against his attacker, and blasted a hole through his chest. The attacker slumped over and fell to the ground lifeless. The Fireman swaggered over and stood over him.
He bent down and whispered in his ear “You will never win.”
“No, you won’t,” the attacker said, he turned over and drove his blade into the Fireman’s neck. His face washed with shock as his eyes bugged out and blood gurgled from his mouth. “Not in my house,” he said. He slumped over and slipped into the dark. His robe opened up, revealing a large snowflake with the letters 12-12 under it tattooed on his chest.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Monday, March 16, 2015
All About Me Monday - Tears
Today's prompt: Write about a time you cried. It could be recently or in the past.
Melody Joy wrote:
I cry a lot. Sometimes out of sorry, sometimes in relief, and other times because something is touching. I cry over things that other people don't cry over, like when I was 6 or 7 and the Lion King came out and I cried when Mufasa died and my older cousin looked at me weird and asked me why I was crying or when I was a young adult and cried while watching the Lion King with a group of young adults and several people looked at me weird and asked me if I was crying...
But there was one time I was thinking about abortion and the women that have them as well as women who lose their babies. As I thought and prayed for these women, I began crying softly about the pure loss of life that most people turn into a women's right issue. I asked God "Who cries for the aborted babies?" because I knew that unlike miscarried or stillborn babies, there were no shed tears there, nor a sense of loss where there should have been. The answer came back to me clearly like I wish it did more often: "I do."
I can't explain it, but in that moment, I felt God's heart for the aborted babies all over the world. I felt His sense of loss over them, and wept with Him over the lives that are lost without a second thought because they were inconvenient mistakes.
Dana Lee wrote:
Growing up I never cried a lot in front of people. When my grandpa passed away in 2003, my biggest fear was that I would suppress all emotions and not be able to let it out. I wanted to show my real sorrow in the loss of my grandfather but didn't know if I would be able to. On the day of the funeral I saw my dad lose it. My dad who never let us see him cry was crying about the passing of his father-in-law. A big reason this was is because my grandpa is was the first man to show my dad what it meant to be a dad. My father's dad wasn't exactly the best role model when he was growing up. So, naturally seeing my grown father and my older male cousins crying just tore me apart and I lost it. That was one of the hardest days I have ever had to go through.
Pope Jon wrote:
I can’t go into any real detail with this story, but I’m going to try to tell it anyway.
I witnessed someone falling onto their back from around 30 feet strait up. I still remember the sounds and sights vividly; I’ve marked them in my mind as the closest I’ve ever come to watching someone die. After the fall, adrenaline kicked in, and I went into emergency mode without a moment’s hesitation. I called 911, communicated calmly with the dispatcher, followed her instructions, and then waited for the ambulance to arrive.
After the ambulance arrived and the emergency was officially out of my hands, my emotions caught up to me suddenly. I’m very thankful that I had a friend there with me, because I don’t know how long I would’ve wept were I on my own. It was the first and only time she saw me crying, and I think that alone shocked her. I started going on about how I should’ve done something to prevent what happened, and how it was my fault. Even as I said it, it felt foolish, but I just needed to panic for a minute.
My friend hugged and encouraged me, and I was able to sober up before long, reassured that I’d done the best with what has handed to me. In a strange way, I am glad to have experienced that. I know now that I can act rationally and quickly in emergencies, and save my sorrow for later.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Melody Joy wrote:
I cry a lot. Sometimes out of sorry, sometimes in relief, and other times because something is touching. I cry over things that other people don't cry over, like when I was 6 or 7 and the Lion King came out and I cried when Mufasa died and my older cousin looked at me weird and asked me why I was crying or when I was a young adult and cried while watching the Lion King with a group of young adults and several people looked at me weird and asked me if I was crying...
But there was one time I was thinking about abortion and the women that have them as well as women who lose their babies. As I thought and prayed for these women, I began crying softly about the pure loss of life that most people turn into a women's right issue. I asked God "Who cries for the aborted babies?" because I knew that unlike miscarried or stillborn babies, there were no shed tears there, nor a sense of loss where there should have been. The answer came back to me clearly like I wish it did more often: "I do."
I can't explain it, but in that moment, I felt God's heart for the aborted babies all over the world. I felt His sense of loss over them, and wept with Him over the lives that are lost without a second thought because they were inconvenient mistakes.
Dana Lee wrote:
Growing up I never cried a lot in front of people. When my grandpa passed away in 2003, my biggest fear was that I would suppress all emotions and not be able to let it out. I wanted to show my real sorrow in the loss of my grandfather but didn't know if I would be able to. On the day of the funeral I saw my dad lose it. My dad who never let us see him cry was crying about the passing of his father-in-law. A big reason this was is because my grandpa is was the first man to show my dad what it meant to be a dad. My father's dad wasn't exactly the best role model when he was growing up. So, naturally seeing my grown father and my older male cousins crying just tore me apart and I lost it. That was one of the hardest days I have ever had to go through.
Pope Jon wrote:
I can’t go into any real detail with this story, but I’m going to try to tell it anyway.
I witnessed someone falling onto their back from around 30 feet strait up. I still remember the sounds and sights vividly; I’ve marked them in my mind as the closest I’ve ever come to watching someone die. After the fall, adrenaline kicked in, and I went into emergency mode without a moment’s hesitation. I called 911, communicated calmly with the dispatcher, followed her instructions, and then waited for the ambulance to arrive.
After the ambulance arrived and the emergency was officially out of my hands, my emotions caught up to me suddenly. I’m very thankful that I had a friend there with me, because I don’t know how long I would’ve wept were I on my own. It was the first and only time she saw me crying, and I think that alone shocked her. I started going on about how I should’ve done something to prevent what happened, and how it was my fault. Even as I said it, it felt foolish, but I just needed to panic for a minute.
My friend hugged and encouraged me, and I was able to sober up before long, reassured that I’d done the best with what has handed to me. In a strange way, I am glad to have experienced that. I know now that I can act rationally and quickly in emergencies, and save my sorrow for later.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Saturday Extras!
Prompt: Write about something that always makes you laugh.
Dana Lee wrote:
Well, I have a pretty quirky sense of humor. I am mildly obsessed with bad jokes and puns. The worse the joke or pun is, the more I will probably laugh. Here is a joke that my grandma always tells that is one of the best jokes that I have heard:
A young boy dressed as a cowboy walks into an ice cream parlor. With every request he points his hand as a gun (pretending of course) to the cashier.
Cashier: Can I help you?
Boy: I would like an ice cream please.
Cashier: Chocolate or vanilla?
Boy: Chocolate
Cashier: Would you like your nuts crushed?
Boy: Would you like your tits blown off?
Prompt: What is your favorite car you’ve owned? Write about a day in its life from the car’s perspective.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite car was my white 1998 Ford Escort station wagon. His name was Duvok. He unfortunately passed away in an accident several years ago. I’m choosing to write about his last day.
I was nothing if not flexible. I had to learn quickly with Melody to expect the unexpected. We went to and from college classes regularly, and then there were jobs and social outings and other such things. In her college days, I carried her sleeping bag and pillow and enjoyed her afternoon naps between classes. I carried her friends and family members. That was when I was a city car.
Then, I became a country car, and traded backpacks for bales of hay. One of the happiest moments of my life was when she loaded 12 hay bales inside me and tossed 2 more on top to move them all up to the other barn. She was so proud of me, and I was thrilled to see her so happy. Those were the days when I was especially flexible. Sometimes I would sit and wait to be used for days before she would have need of me, and then we would travel all the way to visit her parents.
She was my best friend, and the best owner I could ever have, and I don’t blame her at all for the accident that took my life from me. We were on the freeway, and everything stopped without warning, like it sometimes happens. There was a big SUV behind her that wasn’t paying attention. They got lucky, though, and swerved onto the shoulder in time to miss us. I didn’t have time to sigh in relief before the car behind the SUV slammed into us, nearly at full speed. The driver didn’t even know traffic was stopped until it was too late.
I limped off to the side of the road, gas leaking onto the road in a most embarrassing way. Only the front doors could open. Everything else was mangled shut forever. She cried as she snapped pictures of my damage, and I cried for her injuries, minor as they were. We both cried over the mutual loss of each other. Three days later, and I watched her leave for another country and a new adventure. Her parents made the call for her to the junkman, and he’s on his way now.
It’s been a good life, and I can’t complain. Of course I wish I could have lived longer, but I still go with no regrets, and I hope that all cars can be as happy as I was.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dana Lee wrote:
Well, I have a pretty quirky sense of humor. I am mildly obsessed with bad jokes and puns. The worse the joke or pun is, the more I will probably laugh. Here is a joke that my grandma always tells that is one of the best jokes that I have heard:
A young boy dressed as a cowboy walks into an ice cream parlor. With every request he points his hand as a gun (pretending of course) to the cashier.
Cashier: Can I help you?
Boy: I would like an ice cream please.
Cashier: Chocolate or vanilla?
Boy: Chocolate
Cashier: Would you like your nuts crushed?
Boy: Would you like your tits blown off?
Prompt: What is your favorite car you’ve owned? Write about a day in its life from the car’s perspective.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite car was my white 1998 Ford Escort station wagon. His name was Duvok. He unfortunately passed away in an accident several years ago. I’m choosing to write about his last day.
I was nothing if not flexible. I had to learn quickly with Melody to expect the unexpected. We went to and from college classes regularly, and then there were jobs and social outings and other such things. In her college days, I carried her sleeping bag and pillow and enjoyed her afternoon naps between classes. I carried her friends and family members. That was when I was a city car.
Then, I became a country car, and traded backpacks for bales of hay. One of the happiest moments of my life was when she loaded 12 hay bales inside me and tossed 2 more on top to move them all up to the other barn. She was so proud of me, and I was thrilled to see her so happy. Those were the days when I was especially flexible. Sometimes I would sit and wait to be used for days before she would have need of me, and then we would travel all the way to visit her parents.
She was my best friend, and the best owner I could ever have, and I don’t blame her at all for the accident that took my life from me. We were on the freeway, and everything stopped without warning, like it sometimes happens. There was a big SUV behind her that wasn’t paying attention. They got lucky, though, and swerved onto the shoulder in time to miss us. I didn’t have time to sigh in relief before the car behind the SUV slammed into us, nearly at full speed. The driver didn’t even know traffic was stopped until it was too late.
I limped off to the side of the road, gas leaking onto the road in a most embarrassing way. Only the front doors could open. Everything else was mangled shut forever. She cried as she snapped pictures of my damage, and I cried for her injuries, minor as they were. We both cried over the mutual loss of each other. Three days later, and I watched her leave for another country and a new adventure. Her parents made the call for her to the junkman, and he’s on his way now.
It’s been a good life, and I can’t complain. Of course I wish I could have lived longer, but I still go with no regrets, and I hope that all cars can be as happy as I was.
Photo courtesy of: Melody Joy
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Friday, March 13, 2015
Friday Favorites - Car Journals
What is your favorite car you've owned? Write about a day in its life from the car’s perspective.
Pope Jon wrote:
My name is Aranea. I'm a black 1997 Pontiac Grand Prix, and my owner is a white 1990 Human Pope Jon.
Here he comes now, early as ever. He needs me to get to work, and I need him to flaunt my exotic beauty to other cars. I wait eagerly for him to shove his key into my ignition. As soon as he turns the key, I roar to life. A bit louder than usual, but that's just the way we like it.
He gives me some time to warm up, and I can't wait to share my heat with him. I always feel guilty, seeing him there shivering from the morning frost, but I know before long he won't even need my heat. As he waits, he puts on his music, then skips songs without any reasonable pattern until he finds one he likes.
With the music cranked louder than my mighty engine, we take off. As we make our way to work, I often feel insecure about my abilities. I can rarely honk my horn, so if the Pope needs to alert other driver's, he has to shift me into neutral and rev my engine. Despite my guilt, how well he understands me makes me feel loved and appreciated. He never complains about my left indicator not working, and is always singing to me as we drive.
I wait for him in the parking structure as he works, and take him home as usual after he's done. Today, as usual, he lets me rest after he's done with work, and I am grateful. As I get settled in for the night, he enters the house with his food from Campana De Taco. I sigh at the sight of his rump, and wish we could be more than just friends.
Dana Lee wrote:
My first car will always be my favorite car. It was a 1994 Saturn. Her name was Winky because one of the pop-up headlights would not go down as it was supposed to. When the car would shift, the transmission would often shift so hard that it would lurch you forward. I would joke that it felt as if the car were just making a big poop or farting. Yeah, I am classy.
A day in the life of Winky-
I want my owner to love me. I really do. However, I often feel rejection from her as if I am not good enough for her. I know ladies are not supposed to fart but sometimes you just have to let it out. I am hoping that she will take me to get looked at. I would really like to see a doctor in order to take care of this serious problem. I really enjoy her nickname for me. She loving calls me Winky because one of my eyes is stuck open. I do not mind though. It allows me to always see what is going on around me and watch my surroundings. It is one of my favorite things! I hope we are friends until the very end!
Chuck C. wrote:
The sun peaked up over the horizon, its rays kissing my windshield, beginning the process of evaporating the morning dew that covered it. Nights are lonely and often I find them near unbearable. All is made better though when he comes out to go about his daily rigors. At seven he emerges and gets my engine started, warming it sufficiently so it’s nice and warm inside me. When he parks me in his high school parking lot and leaves me again for 8 hours, I long for his return. At three he comes back, and we are together once again. It’s always pure bliss to serve one’s purpose. Although he drives me for a scant hour a day, I will always be there, awaiting him. Waiting for him to need me defines my life. I will serve him as long he needs me, or as long as I am able.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Pope Jon wrote:
My name is Aranea. I'm a black 1997 Pontiac Grand Prix, and my owner is a white 1990 Human Pope Jon.
Here he comes now, early as ever. He needs me to get to work, and I need him to flaunt my exotic beauty to other cars. I wait eagerly for him to shove his key into my ignition. As soon as he turns the key, I roar to life. A bit louder than usual, but that's just the way we like it.
He gives me some time to warm up, and I can't wait to share my heat with him. I always feel guilty, seeing him there shivering from the morning frost, but I know before long he won't even need my heat. As he waits, he puts on his music, then skips songs without any reasonable pattern until he finds one he likes.
With the music cranked louder than my mighty engine, we take off. As we make our way to work, I often feel insecure about my abilities. I can rarely honk my horn, so if the Pope needs to alert other driver's, he has to shift me into neutral and rev my engine. Despite my guilt, how well he understands me makes me feel loved and appreciated. He never complains about my left indicator not working, and is always singing to me as we drive.
I wait for him in the parking structure as he works, and take him home as usual after he's done. Today, as usual, he lets me rest after he's done with work, and I am grateful. As I get settled in for the night, he enters the house with his food from Campana De Taco. I sigh at the sight of his rump, and wish we could be more than just friends.
Dana Lee wrote:
My first car will always be my favorite car. It was a 1994 Saturn. Her name was Winky because one of the pop-up headlights would not go down as it was supposed to. When the car would shift, the transmission would often shift so hard that it would lurch you forward. I would joke that it felt as if the car were just making a big poop or farting. Yeah, I am classy.
Photo complements of: http://www.autodetective.com/_upload/photos/saturn/s-series/1994/56565.jpg
I want my owner to love me. I really do. However, I often feel rejection from her as if I am not good enough for her. I know ladies are not supposed to fart but sometimes you just have to let it out. I am hoping that she will take me to get looked at. I would really like to see a doctor in order to take care of this serious problem. I really enjoy her nickname for me. She loving calls me Winky because one of my eyes is stuck open. I do not mind though. It allows me to always see what is going on around me and watch my surroundings. It is one of my favorite things! I hope we are friends until the very end!
Chuck C. wrote:
The sun peaked up over the horizon, its rays kissing my windshield, beginning the process of evaporating the morning dew that covered it. Nights are lonely and often I find them near unbearable. All is made better though when he comes out to go about his daily rigors. At seven he emerges and gets my engine started, warming it sufficiently so it’s nice and warm inside me. When he parks me in his high school parking lot and leaves me again for 8 hours, I long for his return. At three he comes back, and we are together once again. It’s always pure bliss to serve one’s purpose. Although he drives me for a scant hour a day, I will always be there, awaiting him. Waiting for him to need me defines my life. I will serve him as long he needs me, or as long as I am able.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Wacky Wednesday - Abducted Bakers!
Write about the abduction of a stuffy British baker.
Chuck C. wrote:
Reginald James Fairfield was London's finest baker. His raspberry danish was the stuff of legends. It was said that after consuming one Valdimer Putin shed a single tear and said that, for the first time, he saw beauty in this world. Little did he know though that his acumen with baked goods would lead to the most harrowing adventure of his life.
Reginald was walking home one day after a long night making the queen’s birthday spread when four men in black masked stormed out of a van. They threw a bag over his head and smothered him with a chloroform soaked rag.
He awoke hours later. Groggy, foggy eyed, and barely able to stand, he saw a suit clad figure standing in front of him. His vision began to clear and he realized he was in a very well stocked bakery. Judging by the lack of windows he was underground somewhere.
“Hello Mr. Fairfield” the dapper figure said, his voice deep and firm.
“What the bloody hell is this?” Fairfield exclaimed, “Do you have any idea who I am!” He went for the door but realized his foot was chained to a post dug deep into the concrete floor.
“Mr. Fairfield, you’re not going anywhere any time soon,” the man said, “Not until my...client’s... needs are met,” he said, looking at long piece of paper on the table. On it was a quite extensive list of pastries and cakes.
“If your client wanted my baked goods why he simply just order them?” He inquired.
“Oh come now, chef... you know your goods are on nearly a year back order,” the man said. His tone darkening, he pulled out a pistol from under his coat and leveled it against the renowned baker. “Now, make the damn pastries or you will not live to regret it”
Fairfield's disposition changed immediately. He quickly grabbed the supplies he needed and went about his task, his hands trembling.
Suddenly there was an impossibly bright flash and a deafening bang. For the second time that day he blacked out. Moments later he came to outside on the street, laying in the back of an ambulance.
“So, Mr. Fairfield,” a Russian-accented voice said from outside. He lifted his head and saw Vladimir Putin himself was standing there, “Looks like we got to you just in time.”
“President Putin? What the devil are you doing here? What the devil is going on!” he demanded.
“It seems that one of the captains of the Russian Mafia was rejected by your application department and didn’t take that well. My mole in his organization heard of the plot and informed. After what you did for me, could not stand the idea of anything happening to you. I'm just glad we were able to get to you in time,” he explained.
“Well I say,” Reginald said, standing up briskly, “I don’t care what they say about you; you’re alright in my book.” He extended his hand, shaking the Russian president's hand briskly, “Anything you ever need, you got it.”
“Now that you mention it...” President Putin said. He handed him an even longer list. He looked through it.
“10 dozen Raspberry Danishes? By Monday?”
Vladimir nodded.
“Well, looks like I have my work cut out for me then!” he said, “Onward!”
Dana Lee wrote:
Dear Diary,
You will never believe what happened to me if I told you. I was in my bakery getting ready to close the shop. These two airy-fairy American men came in and just whisked me out of my shop. They were aled up but they had the curtesy to allow me to lock the shop before leaving. It was just all to cock (or as these idiots would say, all messed up). So, they took me to this antwacky (or old fashioned) building way down in the bad parts of the city. Awaiting there was their whole family, apparently awaiting my arrival. They demanded I get into the kitchen and immediately begin making a birthday cake for the youngest gal in the family. I would later learn that it was her first birthday.
Without question I went into the kitchen and got to work because my life depended on it. The wife of the one man came in and would not leave me along. She just kept banging on about how the cake had to be perfect. The cake should be like this. The cake should be like that. I just wanted her to leave me alone. I did not want to be there in the first place! When the cake was finished and the bash began, I was allowed to go home.
That was the craziest day I have ever had in my life. Those Americans have problems.
Melody Joy wrote:
Warner Warthingtan had always been teased about being uptight, but the simple fact was that he was better at everything than everybody, so he had no need for their nonsense. Despite his family’s wealth allowing him to choose any college in the world, he chose a simple trade school because of the affinity he had always had for baking. After all, his father was often away on business, so he spent much of his time baking in the kitchen with his mother, who was a rather large woman.
He founded the Warner Warthingtan Whimsical Cupcake Factory shortly after graduation from baking school and soon was well-known throughout London for his towering elegant cakes, delectable scones, and exquisite bon-bons. Nearly thirty years later, the business was still going strong. He was working alone late one night on a large order of delicate England-shaped sugar cookies for the queen’s 113th birthday party when he became aware of people in the front of the shop.
Coming out of the kitchen disgruntled because the flighty girl who closed the store had clearly forgotten to lock the door, he found himself faced with three men dressed all in black, faces covered by masks. He sighed dejectedly as they escorted him out of the bakery and into a waiting car. He sat quietly in the back seat as they drove recklessly through the dark streets of London before eventually coming to a stop at an abandoned warehouse outside of the city.
They walked him inside where he was greeted by the sight of his dear aged mother dangling by a straining rope above a large cage filled with grumbling lions. The biggest of the lion yawned wide, revealing glistening sharp fangs. Warner Warthingtan stifled a yawn of his own as a man approached him slowly, face hidden by the shadows.
“As you can see, Mr. Warner Warthingtan of Warner Warthingtan Cupcake Factory, we have your mother. If you don’t do as we say, we’re going to drop her in there with the tigers and let them tear her apart.”
Warner Warthingtan carefully considered these words before answering, “So if I refuse to do as you say, you will feed my poor feeble mother to tigers?”
“Yes.”
Warner Warthingtan extended his hand, “Do you swear under threat of perjury that my mother will be spared from being fed to tigers if I do as you say?”
The man was taken slightly aback by the casual manner in which the transaction was going, but he was pleased nonetheless, “Yes. If you do as you say, your mother will not be fed to the tigers.”
“Well. I’m glad we cleared that up. Now, if you excuse me, I will be taking my mother and leaving here at once.”
“But you haven’t done as we asked.”
“I’m not going to. You see, my mother is in no danger because whether or not I do as you ask, there are no tigers here to feed her to. And since we made a gentleman’s agreement, you have to honor that. Now, I’m officially refusing to acquiesce to your request. Please release her safely into my custody at once.”
The man was no longer sure what to do. The stuffy British baker he was faced with had turned the tables on him quickly and made him look like a fool. He could hear one of his henchmen snickering and two others were obviously trying desperately but unsuccessfully to hide their own fits of laughter.
Warner Warthingtan crossed his long arms over his chest and suddenly seemed significantly taller to the portly man who had abducted him. The man began to fidget as Warner Warthingtan glared down at him, expectantly waiting for him to admit defeat.
At long last, the man gave in. He demanded that the elderly woman be let down away from the waiting mouths of the lions and handed her over to the waiting baker. As Warner Warthingtan strutted past the guards, he overheard them asking how the boss was going to get the cake he wanted for his daughter on time since he had waited too long to get on the waiting list and his daughter would accept nothing but the best cake in London.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Chuck C. wrote:
Reginald James Fairfield was London's finest baker. His raspberry danish was the stuff of legends. It was said that after consuming one Valdimer Putin shed a single tear and said that, for the first time, he saw beauty in this world. Little did he know though that his acumen with baked goods would lead to the most harrowing adventure of his life.
Photo created by: http://www.bryandefilippi.com/
Reginald was walking home one day after a long night making the queen’s birthday spread when four men in black masked stormed out of a van. They threw a bag over his head and smothered him with a chloroform soaked rag.
He awoke hours later. Groggy, foggy eyed, and barely able to stand, he saw a suit clad figure standing in front of him. His vision began to clear and he realized he was in a very well stocked bakery. Judging by the lack of windows he was underground somewhere.
“Hello Mr. Fairfield” the dapper figure said, his voice deep and firm.
“What the bloody hell is this?” Fairfield exclaimed, “Do you have any idea who I am!” He went for the door but realized his foot was chained to a post dug deep into the concrete floor.
“Mr. Fairfield, you’re not going anywhere any time soon,” the man said, “Not until my...client’s... needs are met,” he said, looking at long piece of paper on the table. On it was a quite extensive list of pastries and cakes.
“If your client wanted my baked goods why he simply just order them?” He inquired.
“Oh come now, chef... you know your goods are on nearly a year back order,” the man said. His tone darkening, he pulled out a pistol from under his coat and leveled it against the renowned baker. “Now, make the damn pastries or you will not live to regret it”
Fairfield's disposition changed immediately. He quickly grabbed the supplies he needed and went about his task, his hands trembling.
Suddenly there was an impossibly bright flash and a deafening bang. For the second time that day he blacked out. Moments later he came to outside on the street, laying in the back of an ambulance.
“So, Mr. Fairfield,” a Russian-accented voice said from outside. He lifted his head and saw Vladimir Putin himself was standing there, “Looks like we got to you just in time.”
“President Putin? What the devil are you doing here? What the devil is going on!” he demanded.
“It seems that one of the captains of the Russian Mafia was rejected by your application department and didn’t take that well. My mole in his organization heard of the plot and informed. After what you did for me, could not stand the idea of anything happening to you. I'm just glad we were able to get to you in time,” he explained.
“Well I say,” Reginald said, standing up briskly, “I don’t care what they say about you; you’re alright in my book.” He extended his hand, shaking the Russian president's hand briskly, “Anything you ever need, you got it.”
“Now that you mention it...” President Putin said. He handed him an even longer list. He looked through it.
“10 dozen Raspberry Danishes? By Monday?”
Vladimir nodded.
“Well, looks like I have my work cut out for me then!” he said, “Onward!”
Dana Lee wrote:
Dear Diary,
You will never believe what happened to me if I told you. I was in my bakery getting ready to close the shop. These two airy-fairy American men came in and just whisked me out of my shop. They were aled up but they had the curtesy to allow me to lock the shop before leaving. It was just all to cock (or as these idiots would say, all messed up). So, they took me to this antwacky (or old fashioned) building way down in the bad parts of the city. Awaiting there was their whole family, apparently awaiting my arrival. They demanded I get into the kitchen and immediately begin making a birthday cake for the youngest gal in the family. I would later learn that it was her first birthday.
Without question I went into the kitchen and got to work because my life depended on it. The wife of the one man came in and would not leave me along. She just kept banging on about how the cake had to be perfect. The cake should be like this. The cake should be like that. I just wanted her to leave me alone. I did not want to be there in the first place! When the cake was finished and the bash began, I was allowed to go home.
That was the craziest day I have ever had in my life. Those Americans have problems.
Melody Joy wrote:
Warner Warthingtan had always been teased about being uptight, but the simple fact was that he was better at everything than everybody, so he had no need for their nonsense. Despite his family’s wealth allowing him to choose any college in the world, he chose a simple trade school because of the affinity he had always had for baking. After all, his father was often away on business, so he spent much of his time baking in the kitchen with his mother, who was a rather large woman.
He founded the Warner Warthingtan Whimsical Cupcake Factory shortly after graduation from baking school and soon was well-known throughout London for his towering elegant cakes, delectable scones, and exquisite bon-bons. Nearly thirty years later, the business was still going strong. He was working alone late one night on a large order of delicate England-shaped sugar cookies for the queen’s 113th birthday party when he became aware of people in the front of the shop.
Coming out of the kitchen disgruntled because the flighty girl who closed the store had clearly forgotten to lock the door, he found himself faced with three men dressed all in black, faces covered by masks. He sighed dejectedly as they escorted him out of the bakery and into a waiting car. He sat quietly in the back seat as they drove recklessly through the dark streets of London before eventually coming to a stop at an abandoned warehouse outside of the city.
They walked him inside where he was greeted by the sight of his dear aged mother dangling by a straining rope above a large cage filled with grumbling lions. The biggest of the lion yawned wide, revealing glistening sharp fangs. Warner Warthingtan stifled a yawn of his own as a man approached him slowly, face hidden by the shadows.
“As you can see, Mr. Warner Warthingtan of Warner Warthingtan Cupcake Factory, we have your mother. If you don’t do as we say, we’re going to drop her in there with the tigers and let them tear her apart.”
Warner Warthingtan carefully considered these words before answering, “So if I refuse to do as you say, you will feed my poor feeble mother to tigers?”
“Yes.”
Warner Warthingtan extended his hand, “Do you swear under threat of perjury that my mother will be spared from being fed to tigers if I do as you say?”
The man was taken slightly aback by the casual manner in which the transaction was going, but he was pleased nonetheless, “Yes. If you do as you say, your mother will not be fed to the tigers.”
“Well. I’m glad we cleared that up. Now, if you excuse me, I will be taking my mother and leaving here at once.”
“But you haven’t done as we asked.”
“I’m not going to. You see, my mother is in no danger because whether or not I do as you ask, there are no tigers here to feed her to. And since we made a gentleman’s agreement, you have to honor that. Now, I’m officially refusing to acquiesce to your request. Please release her safely into my custody at once.”
The man was no longer sure what to do. The stuffy British baker he was faced with had turned the tables on him quickly and made him look like a fool. He could hear one of his henchmen snickering and two others were obviously trying desperately but unsuccessfully to hide their own fits of laughter.
Warner Warthingtan crossed his long arms over his chest and suddenly seemed significantly taller to the portly man who had abducted him. The man began to fidget as Warner Warthingtan glared down at him, expectantly waiting for him to admit defeat.
At long last, the man gave in. He demanded that the elderly woman be let down away from the waiting mouths of the lions and handed her over to the waiting baker. As Warner Warthingtan strutted past the guards, he overheard them asking how the boss was going to get the cake he wanted for his daughter on time since he had waited too long to get on the waiting list and his daughter would accept nothing but the best cake in London.
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