All About Me Monday - Hard Lessons

Today's Prompt: What is something you had to learn the hard way?


Chuck C. wrote:

Something I've learned the hard way? Yeah, cause that is a short list. It’s safe to say that life is one long string of learning things the hard way. I guess though, if pressed, one particular lesson stands out. Do not, under any circumstances, date a woman you've met in a mosh pit. It may sound fun, even adventurous, but it won't end well. Trust me.


Melody Joy wrote:

I feel like I have to learn everything the hard way since I often refuse to listen to advice and am convinced that things will work out differently than me. One major lesson comes to mind, though, regarding driving while distracted.

My first car was a red 92 Dodge Shadow. Not too long after having her, she blew a head gasket, but the repair cost was too much, so I was to drive her until she died, which kept things interesting because she stalled whenever I stopped for more than like 3 seconds... Anyway, I actually ended up getting her fixed by a friend of a friend for a fraction of the cost and was looking forward to the (slightly elongated) life of my very own car.

I was 17, and over confident in my driving abilities. It had been raining for several days, which I learned later makes the roads especially slick because the oils on the road hang out on top of the wet pavement. My car’s tires were also quite bald as I knew nothing of checking tread. To top that off, I had my brothers and a friend in the car, was trying to adjust the radio, and was also attempting to text a friend.

The light was green, so I was assuming that the people in front of me were still moving. However, a couple cars up someone stopped to let another person out of the bank. I looked up in time to slam on the breaks, but it didn’t do anything. I slammed into the car in front of me, an SUV. Being a big taller than my own car, their bumper went above mine perfectly.

I broke the pin that held their spare tire up beneath their car. They crushed the front of my car like a tin can. My poor car made it home, but to open the hood my dad had to later pry it open with a crowbar. The radiator was busted at least, and we’re not sure what else. How did I know the radiator was broken before opening up the hood? That’s another story titled “The Absolute Worst Weekend of My Life or That One Time My Beloved Cat Drank Radiator Fluid And Almost Died After I Crashed My Beloved Car While I Was Home Alone All Weekend.”


Pope Jon wrote:

I learned that I need to write these blog posts sooner. It's 3 am on Saturday morning, and Melody asks for these to be turned in by Saturday.

Now, it waiting until the last minute is something I've always done, and quite frankly, I'm not entirely sure that I've really learned the lesson. I'm afraid sometimes that I'm going to learn it the VERY hard way some time soon.

But the problem with waiting to do the blog posts is that I am now at my wit's end, meaning I'm just about out of wits. And in my amateur opinion, my wits are the reason people even read my posts!

Even after writing the above three paragraphs, my procrastinating self got caught on facebook again. Now I'm even more tired, and less likely to write something worthwhile. So, I guess you can look forward to seeing if I manage anything interesting for Wednesday and Friday!

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Friday Favorites - Flavorful

What is your favorite flavor of ice cream? Write about what would happen if everything you ate tasted like that.


Dana Lee wrote:

I love Moose Tracks. I only get it once a year for my ice cream so it is a special treat. If everything tasted like Moose Tracks I imagine one of two things would happen.

1. I would eat everything in site and probably gain 1,000,000 pounds. I would have no control over eating everything because it would be ridiculously delicious.

2. I would only eat once a year. I would feel as though the taste of the ice cream as a treat. This would cause me to only want it once a year. The benefit to this is that I would lose a lot of weight if I didn't die from hunger first.


Dan Christmann wrote:

If everything in the world tasted like pumpkin ice cream, I think that the first thing I would do would immediately consult a doctor, because I’m pretty sure that’s a sign that you are having some kind of stroke, or are dying.

But, barring that, I think the entire thing would be bloody fantastic, because technically I am tasting something every minute of every day. And so even if I got bored of that flavor, everything else, even inedible things, would still taste pretty decent. So I would probably make a career doing that, eating things that no one else could stand to eat. Like that fermented basking shark meat that some native tribes in Greenland eat. Either that, or I would become the healthiest man on the planet. It would revolutionize my diet. I could eat raw kale or broccoli day after day and, barring the texture factor, just keep on doing it as long as it kept me alive and kicking. Actually, if I think about it, it would also mean that I would never have to cook again because, aside from a few minor factors, cooking wouldn’t do a bit of good for me. No matter how much I braised, seared, broiled, or otherwise marinated my meals, everything would just come out as hot, cold, greasy or dry pumpkin ice cream.


Pope Jon wrote:

I'm a really REALLY big fan of raspberry anything, especially ice cream.

I mean, if everything tasted like raspberry, food would become all about texture, temperature, and appearance. It would actually be a vast contrast, as currently the taste is the primary factor involved with enjoying food.

I think I would want to just sip everything through a straw. Because without the flavor of steak, tacos, or pizza, what's the point of going through the trouble of tearing and cutting food apart? The one flavor you experience would likely end up being mainstreamed into an easily accessed format.

But then again, would I learn to value texture, temperature, and appearance to the point where flavor didn't matter? Would those become my way of enjoying food? I feel like with people who lose their taste, they tend to end up just slipping on smoothies anyway, so I'd probably follow in their foodsteps. Teehee! I made that pun on accident with a typo, but I absolutely love it.


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Wacky Wednesday - Octopus vs. Car vs. Tree

Today's prompt: Write an action scene that includes an octopus, a tree, and a racecar.


Pope Jon wrote:

Roger the Racer was determined to win. Nothing else mattered more to him. He was competing with one purpose: to save an endangered species: The Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus!

So far, the race had gone as was normal for Roger. He'd pulled ahead early, and was using his signature strategy to stay in the lead. He was an expert at preventing other racers from moving past him, much to their dismay.

As he approached a particularly wide turn, Roger knew he needed to pull out his secret weapon to keep the lead. With a calm but determined grimace, Roger pulled a tentacle shaped lever. Just as other drivers attempted to take advantage of the wide turn to pass Roger, Roger's octopus-themed vehicle, the Octoracer 8,000, lashed out with its eight tentacles and suctioned onto passing vehicles.

As the turn ended, Roger pushed the lever back in, and the tentacles pulled the other vehicles backwards, while propelling his own car forward at great speed. The other drivers were now hopelessly far behind, and Roger even glmipsed one of the octo-haters swerve off the road and crash into a tree.

Then he won, and the completely real and not made up or a hoax Pacific Northwest Tree Octopuses (Octopi? Octopusi?) were saved!


Dana Lee wrote:

Silly octopus. Everyone knows Octopuses cannot drive, let alone drive a race car.
Silly Octopus racing along the track
Hitting top speed
Watch out Octopus
Watch out
There is
a
tree

Splat

Silly Octopus
Stood no chance
Despite the warnings
The Octopus
is
dead.


Dan Cristmann wrote:

Crook. Crook. Crook.

The sound echoed through the water, rattling the coral and causing the sea creatures to dive back into their shoals and burrows. But then the thundering would pass and the water would cease rippling. One by one, the small fish darted out first, their colorful scales flashing in the light. The larger ones inched out warily, their longer memories reminding them to be wary. But soon they too joined the smaller ones out in the lances of sunlight that splashed down through the water. It was difficult to resist. No time in recent memory had there been such sunlight. And even with their longer memories, the older fish drifted out to bask in it. To take the opportunity to absorb some of the glorious heat before-

Crook. Crook. Crook

The thundering came again and even the young ones fled like minnows to their shelters under the rock. The process was always the same. A cycle of drifting, of forgetfulness, and sudden remembrance.

But there was something deep down that did not join them. Its eyes flashed in its burrow at the bottom of the floor. It did not leave, because it did not need to remember. It did not leave because it never forgot.

Crook. Crook. Crook.

Above them, the three Formula one racers blistered by. One by one they scorched the new pavement of the Troppicalsoundingname racetrack. In the stands, hordes of young, attractive people roared, each one of them so utterly sure of themselves that the day would never end, and that they, along with it, would live forever under the smell of the sun and roasted asphalt.

Billionaire playboy and prince of Tropicalsoundingname, Sir Richard Pumpaloaf, offered a dazzling smile as he blew past the checkpoint line. This had been the best idea he’d ever had. The section of the royal forest they’d demolished for the project had been marshy and unattractive, no use for anyone. He had saved, he thought, looking at the attractive coconut seat belted to his passenger seat, the only worthwhile tree in the place. The coconut tree now rested comfortably in the royal garden, much more comfortably than where he had found it, hanging over the water, about to take a dip, it had looked like.

Crook. Crook. Crook.

The racers blew by a fourth time, ready now for the homestretch. Pumpaloaf’s car trembled, and he turned over his shoulder, grinning. Yuri, the Lithuanian, had crept up behind him, and now was bearing down on his bumper, trying to get past him on the last leg of the race. The prince laughed a quick three salvo retort, and turned his concentration back to the road. He patted the coconut in the passenger’s seat and took hold of the shifter. It was time to show that filthy Soviet how it was done.

He was pulling ahead, blistering past the ocean stretch, when he felt a small impact on the side of the car. Suddenly, he jerked forward, nearly smashing into the front window. Trying to recover himself, he gunned the engine, but the wheels spun uselessly behind him as he and the car were lifted high into the air. Outside in the stands, spectators pointed, screamed, and started running. The prince was on the verge of it himself when he saw the massive tentacles snaking out at him from the sea.

Sensing that it now had a firm grip on the car, the gigantic octopus reached through the windows and pried off its roof, flinging the flimsy piece of metal into the stands. The shoddily manufactured structure collapsed in a cloud of dust. Far away, the Lithuanian and Nepalese computer mogul gaped on, their cars still running, keys forgotten in the ignition. Prince Pumpaloaf scrambled over the seats as the tentacles brought him over the water, and began to shake the vehicle violently.

It was an eternity suspended over that water, an eternity where the only heir to the Tropicalsoundingname throne clung only by the strap of a seatbelt as the great seabeast rattled his multimillion dollar car above its head like a can of cheap pretzels. But it was over before it had begun. Over the screams of the crowd, he could hear a soft plunk, and then seconds later was crawling toward mercifully firm ground. Turning back to his vehicle, he saw that the damage was not extremely extensive, and breathed a sigh of relief. But then stopped short. Something was missing.

Over in the water, the grumpy octopus wrapped one of his arms around the coconut and pulled it down after him under the surface of the water. Three bubbles rose to break the waves as he descended back to his lair. To anyone that might have been paying attention at the time, they might have sounded something like “Crook, Crook, Crook.”


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All About Me Monday - Fruit Salad

Today's Prompt: If you were a fruit, what type would you be? Why?


Dan Christmann wrote:

I think if I were a fruit I would be a tomato, not because there are any specific qualities of the tomato that I think are like me, but because of its ambiguous history. I think it was the medieval Europeans who thought that the tomato was extremely poisonous? When I was a kid I think I perfectly understood that sentiment, though now I also see positive sides to them. Plus, is it even a fruit? Of course it is, because science says so. But the tomato is a little weird like that and like me. We are both the outsiders in your salad bowl.

Dana Lee wrote:

Strawberries
so sensual and sweet
How I wish one day
I could be sensual
I could be sexy

Strawberries
Let me embrace you
Let me be you
Let me
for just one day
Have your sexiness
and your sensuousness

Pope Jon wrote:

Probably an eggplant.

I don't really have a lot of deep, philosophical reasons for this. I suppose I chose eggplant primarily because eggplants are very off-beat. They don't just to your mind right away as a choice of fruit. Not to say people don't think of me when they think of humans, it's just that I'm very unorthodox.

Here's me being cuddled by a cute chick: 

Also, I've been told by multiple people that just the thought or sight of me is enough to make them laugh, and I feel like eggplants have a similar vibe to them. It's almost just funny that they exist.

Plus, I could totally see myself becoming a wizard someday, and then I could be just like this guy: 

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Saturday Extras!

Prompt: Do you have any tattoos? If so, what are they? If not, do you want any and what would you like?


Dan Christmann wrote:

At this point in my life I have not yet besmirched my smooth body with the needle. I don’t actually have any problems with tattoos, but my taste in what I think is cool or interesting changes so regularly that there’s no way I could choose something and not think it was a stupid decision a year later. If I were to choose to ink my body immediately though, I can think of three ideas off of the top of my head that I think might be interesting.

The first would be a picture of Soren Kierkegaard dressed up like Batman. Underneath would be the caption The Dark Knight of Faith.

The second would be a highly detailed rendering of Philip K. Dick’s face on my face. I think he would probably appreciate the irony.

The third would be the entire text of Imre Kertesz’s Kaddish for an Unborn Child in spirals around my torso.


Dana Lee wrote:

Do you have any tattoos? If so, what are they? If not, do you want any and what would you like? I do not currently have any tattoos but would not mind getting one. My mom, sisters and I are all supposed to go together to get rose tattoos. We all have different tastes in roses but this is something I would love to share with them. My last name is also Scottish. I did some research into the clan I would belong in given my last name. The motto of my clan, the Sinclair clan, was something along the lines of "All work must be done in the name of God." That is another tattoo I would not mind getting because it is a nice reminder.


Prompt: Write about a basketball player that finds himself stranded on a utopian island.


Melody Joy wrote:

Spike Jordan wasn’t the best basketball player, nor was he the most well-known, but the latter changed when he disappeared while flying his personal plane over the Bermuda Triangle and became yet another mysterious disappearance in this region.

When the plane’s instruments started going crazy, he immediately began lowering the plane as much as possible just to be safe. When the engine started cutting out, he prepared for an emergency water landing since there was no land in sight. He felt like time stopped as he directed the plane toward the water and waited for the jolt.

He was nearly at the water when he squeezed his eyes shut and braced for impact. But, instead of the crash of a small plane hitting the water, he suddenly heard things scraping against the sides of the plane as he and the craft were bounced from side to side before coming to a sudden stop. Spike opened his eyes cautiously to see leaves and branches pressed against the front and sides of the plane.

Mostly uninjured, he somehow managed to get the door to the plane opened and climbed down the tree that he found himself in. Looking around, he found himself on a utopian island, abundant with fresh fruit and flowing with fresh clean water. Animals scurried around in the brush carelessly.

Spike looked back up toward the plane where it rested high above his head, and jumped in surprise as he saw nearly a dozen other planes in nearby trees, all from a variety of eras but all looking as fresh as his. As he marveled at this, a door to an old plane opened up and a young woman stepped out with a big smile on her face.

She scampered down a vine ladder and stuck out her hand. With a twinkle in her eye, she introduced herself, “I’m Amelia. What brings you here?”


Prompt: Who was your favorite teacher? Write them a note.


Pope Jon wrote:

That'd be Mr. Shire. Although I don't actually remember how to spell his last name. Or his first, for that matter.

He was my 6th grade science teacher, and spent a good portion of he school year screwing around with other teachers, much to us students' great joy.

Mr. Shire:

I would just like to thank you for being so wildly immature. You made me comfortable with the fact that I still found fart jokes funny, and encouraged me to continue to do so. You were one of the first to display absolute terror that is a quiet person turning angry, as well as the effectiveness of said tactic. I remember that on the first day of school, you gave us some paper, telling us to return it to you on the last day of school. As I was the only person in the classroom to remember, including you, I recall following you around after everyone else in the school had run off for summer vacation while you hunted down my candy reward. Anyway, it had been real. I don't know if you'd be proud of me, or whatever, but I think the fact that I graduated highschool should count for something. Even if it was just homeschooling, Wait... I was homeschooled... by my mother... my mother was my teacher, and I chose someone else over her... she reads these blog posts consistently... what have I done?! If only I remembered how to delete words on this infernal contraption! Musn't... send... NOOO!!!


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Friday Favorites - Teacher Time

Today's prompt: Who was your favorite teacher? Write them a note.


Dana Lee wrote:

In a previous post this year I wrote a small note to an old high school English teacher. The words still hold true. However, I would like to take the time to write a note to another high school teacher who really inspired me. Unfortunately he passed away while I was in school so will be unable to read it.

Dear Mr. Humphry,

I know you taught biology but did you know you taught us more than that? You showed me what it meant to be a Christian. You taught me that you do not always have to preach to people in order to show your love of God. You taught me how to love everyone around me. You taught me how to show Gods love through actions but as well as through words if people needed to hear it. You also taught me that being a Christian is cool. That this is something I should embrace because it is a gift.

Thank you. You will never understand how much you changed my life. How much you changed the lives of everyone who walked through the doors of the high school while you were there. Whenever I hear "Amazing Grace," I see you singing it. I can hear your voice radiating through the school halls.

I will never be able to thank you enough for doing all you did for me. I know you are blessed to be in Heaven with Jesus. I can only imagine that you are continuing to inspire everyone you crosses your path there.


Melody Joy wrote:

My favorite teacher would be Dr. Brooks, who insisted that we simply call her Michelle. I had her for Composition 101 and Creative Writing in college.

Dear Michelle,

Thank you for all of the inspiration and encouragement you gave me during the time I spent in your classes. Despite the fact that I was so young in your first class (just 16 and still a Jr. in high school), you treated me with the same respect as you did the rest of the class and gave my writings the same weight as the others. For the first time in my life, it made me feel like I really had something important to share and that maybe what I made was good enough.

I will never forget the time you were talking about the struggles of writing and how most writers (yourself included) spend an hour writing just one or two quality paragraphs, or even sentences. You talked about the writers that were both prolific and great, the category which I fell into, and still do. You also said you hated me for it in front of the class, and having my skills envied by an actual published writer really helped to make me feel like I could make writing my life.

I wish I could say that I allowed your encouragement to push me to finish at least one of my many novels, or that I have since gone out and published many things under my name, but the truth is that while I am making a good second income writing, it’s not under my name nor is it usually about anything that I am passionate about. I write articles, primarily for website marketing purposes.

Sure, it’s covered a few plane tickets along the way, but the satisfaction of making a living doing something you love when you’re doing it for other people and nobody even knows that you were the one that did it is minimal at best. I can only hope that I will take this moment of reflection will get me motivated to devote at least some of my time to my own writing projects.

-Melody Joy


Dan Christmann wrote:

Paigeby!

It’s been a while, eh, mon capitan? Are you still in town? I keep intending to call you, but, as always, life occurs and I put it off until the next day. And the next. And the next.

Are you well? I remember the last time we talked that you were recovering from some medical issues that I, unfortunately, failed to note in exact detail. But when we spoke, I remember that you seemed suddenly very old. I suppose that, numerically speaking, you have always been up there, even when Chloe and I were in high school and you came to teach us British accents for Pride and Prejudice. But it was something I never really realized until I saw you move with a cane, or when I sent an unorganized bit of my thesis to you and you just didn’t understand it. Not that anyone who wasn’t Rena or I would have been able to penetrate what I was getting at, at that point. But I think in so many things you and I had always been of one mind. And you, despite the decades between us, had never seemed old. You weren’t an authority, which I generally associate with age still. You were always, and have always been, my friend.

And so it was strange to see you limp like that, and for me to write something that you couldn’t seem to comprehend. Because it means that you are entering into a part of life that I don’t understand, and that I can’t follow. You are fading from my sight, Michael. And I so want to be able to see you longer, for as long as possible, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep up with you. I wish I could. The days move far too quickly now for me to count. And I don’t know how to deal with this.

My dear old friend, I am far too distracted by this world to see where your eyes fade off to in the pauses in our conversation. Someday, when there is time, will you tell me what is there? Or, if you can, write to me. It doesn’t have to be anything special. But write it.

-Dan


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Wacky Wednesday - Basketball Players Adrift!

Today's prompt: Write about a basketball player that finds himself stranded on a utopian island.


Dan Christmann wrote:

It was difficult for me to adjust at first. Back when I played for the.... Well, that’s all in the past now. But the point is that, when I washed up on the island after explosion and my improbable survival inside the airplane’s toilet facilities, I was used to being extraordinary. If I walked down the street, even in some nowhere place in Oklahoma, not five minutes would pass by before someone would recognize me. The paparazzi soon followed after. I had my own signature line of toiletries. But it was really only because of my arms. I realize this now, that society, that the league, that even my wife and long series of casual affairs, were only because of my arms. Because of my arms I was able to reach over people’s heads. I could just stand under the basket, reach up and stuff the ball in. I scored hundreds, thousands of points this way.

Opening my eyes on that first day on the beach, bleary with the sun and the salt crusting my eyelids, I saw a pair of arms reaching out to me. They helped me up, they took me in, they fed me. And the first day I played against those arms, one on one in the vast, cyclopean court at the center of the island, I realized that I could not reach over them. And that here, where arms grow to abnormal length, possibly because the nuclear experiments conducted here on the eve of world war two, I realized that I could never reach over anyone again. From then on out I would be forced to play, and play for my life. Nothing comes easy here.

I have never been happier.


Dana Lee wrote:

Dear Diary,

I have been sitting here on the Island de la Paraiso for the past month. I have to admit that at first I thought I was going to hate it. But OMG, I love it! First of all, they have the hottest cheerleaders a basketball player could only imagine. Then there is the food. I am drooling just thinking about it. You see, here on this island, they do not allow meat to be killed. They cherish their animals almost to the point of worship. So this means I have never eaten so healthy in my life. I would love to stay and chat more but I have a massage appointment and there is no way I am going to miss that!

Maybe I will be off the island soon,
Who knows?


Chuck C. wrote:

The waves crashed against the lavish yacht, thrashing it around the warm waters of the south china sea. The storm had come so suddenly that the crew didn’t seem prepared to handle it. Its occupants were considered among the richest and most influential figures in politics, sports, and industry. To one of the occupant's though, he was the only one that mattered. Jason Keenning was the NBA's rising star, drafted to the Boston Celtics this year right out of Duke University as a point guard. Enjoying the off season in his own private yacht was his favorite past-time. This time though, it would bring him on a journey that would forever change his life.

Panicked at the storm, he went above deck and grabbed the nearest life preserver. A large wave crashed over the boat, capsizing it. His large frame was picked up and flung from the boat, his vision went dark and he lost consciousness.

He had no idea how long it was he was out. A cool breeze washed over him, bringing him back from the land of the sleeping. His eyes struggled open to see he was laying down on a straw cot in a small bamboo hut. He heard from across the room someone walking towards him. As his vision cleared he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Dressed in a bright white free flowing dress, a bright orange flower in her jet black hair.

She walked over to him, “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Keening.” Her voice was soft and warm. She felt his forehead, “Your fever has subsided it seems.” Her light brown hands were the softest things to ever touch his forehead. “I think you’re ready to meet the king,” she said.

“The king?” he said, puzzled. “Where am I?” He asked.

“All will be revealed in time,” she said, grabbing his hand.

She helped him up and guided him out of the small hut and into a picturesque tropical village. Around him were people of all colors and ages going about their daily tasks. Everyone had a smile on their face. Some worked on their gardens, some worked mills and livestock pens, and others washed clothes. The warm smell of cooking filled the air. Just walking through the village gave Jason a sense of Euphoria, like he had finally found bliss.

The woman led him through the paths of the village. As they made it to the center, he saw a large circular hut adorned with many tropical flowers. She looked back at him and smiled. “Come in. The king has been dying to meet you,” she cooed. She led him by the hand and parted the beaded drapes that hung in the doorway. The inside of the hut was lined with piles of fruit, flowers, and palm leaves.

At the center, on a throne made of bamboo and palm leaves sat a familiar face with a gold crown on his head and flowers adoring his body: Former Russian President Vladimir Putin. Next to his throne was a large plate of cream cheese danishes.

“Mr. Keenning, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Putin said. He snapped his fingers towards one of the many bikini-clad women surrounding his throne. She grabbed the plate of danishes and walked it over to the imposing athlete. “Try the danishes; I had the world’s best baker brought to my slice of paradise. He lives with us now, a part of our community. They will change your life.”

Keenning grabbed a one of them and hesitantly took a bit, still confused. His bewilderment was soon forgotten as the most delicious substance he had ever tasted pasted his lips. His eyes rolled back and his knees weakened.

“I told you,” the crowned Putin said, “You washed up on our shores nearly a month ago. Many thought you were dead, but Mei here nursed you back to health. I for one am glad. That’s one thing our paradise was missing: an athlete.”

“Where am I?” Keenning asked, still euphoric from the danish.

“I do not know the real name of this island, we just refer to it as Paradise. You see, Mr. Keenning, I have lived a life of savagery, of brutality,” he said with a thick Russian accent, “When I found paradise, I knew I was finally home. This island has brought solace and healing to all who have discovered it. I hope it will for you as well.”

The athlete thought about his proposal. He looked around. He never felt so at peace in his life, never felt he was worth anything before he came here. He couldn’t explain it, such a short time here and he felt like he had lived there for his whole life.

“Well King, I think you just found your athlete,” he said with a smile, taking another bite of his Danish.

“Nothing has pleased me more in months, Mr. Keenning. Nothing,” Putin said, choking up slightly, “Welcome home.”

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