My New Growth

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Photo by Malcolm Lidbury

After finally wresting control of my blog from the grip of a ruthlessly apathetic gang of Japanese hacker dognappers, I was hoping to write a new post, and maybe even a normal one. No such luck, as I’ve recently discovered a mysterious new growth living at the uppermost point of my gums.

So as you can imagine, I’ve been too preoccupied with that to write anything new.

This new growth announced its arrival on Wednesday in a tingly manner more annoying than painful, thankfully, but as I type this the sensation has intensified and it now feels like when the dentist injects Novocain or whatever they use these days to numb your mouth. That pinch. Yeah, I know it’s a little pinch, but this thing is like the pinch that keeps on pinching. And rubbing. As in, not only is it like the syringe is up there poking around, but also one of the dentist’s rubber-gloved fingers. A non-stop poking around.

And my new growth is high enough and big enough it’s pressing against my upper lip and my left nostril, and the part of my left cheek closest to my left nostril. The whole area feels swollen and sore and puffy, as if a make-up artist visited me in the middle of the night and added a bulb of prosthetic skin to my face.

That’s how it feels, but not how it looks. Everything on the outside appears to be normal so you wouldn’t know the misery I’m in if you passed me on the street. Unless of course I stopped you and pulled my upper lip over the tip of my proboscis and revealed the terrible tiny orb inhabiting the northern border of my gums.

As I did to my wife.

My dear wife, who explored my mouth with a flashlight and her keen owl eyes, and claims my new growth is just a canker sore in a mighty inconvenient location. Who advised me to try not to think about it.

But of course I’m thinking about it. I can’t not think about it.

Because I’m not convinced it’s a canker sore.

I’m pretty certain it’s an alien organism gestating inside my mouth. Yep. And I expect it’s my left nostril that will eventually serve as the birth canal. Any day now. A furry centipedish creature with pincers for eyes, or a hard shell spidery thing with eight skeletal finger-legs, or maybe a poison-oozing worm-leech. Whatever it is it’s going to hatch out of the milky white breeding sac sitting snug against my gums and them come crawling into and then out of my nose, scuttle over my lips and maybe curl up in the cleft of my chin.

And then I’ll know why I’ve suddenly been obsessed with buying fertilizer and Chinese rice crackers. Because while the alien’s been transitioning from embryo to fetus it’s also been in control of my mind. And fertilizer and Chinese rice crackers are what this particular alien feeds on, what it needs to expand to 1,000 times its original size and take over Los Angeles. And then, eventually, the world.

You’re following the logic of this, right? So you can understand why I’m going to the proper authorities right after I finish this sentence.

Or right after I finish this sentence.

I can’t leave, see? Because of the alien controlling my mind.

Canker sore. Sheesh. My wife can be so naïve sometimes.

WE HAV UR DOGGEE PAY NOW

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Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Still Ticking…

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Photo by Fabrizio Cavalca

Here we are over three months in and Round 5 of Build A Story is still ticking along. “My f*cking stars,” as Mrs. Blendinson might say after eye-balling the cast of characters crammed inside her trailer: dancing bear, sword-swallower, wrecking ball of a man, and midget. What? Don’t know what I’m talking about? Well, give our story-so-far a read and get in on the fun. And then keep the ticker going by leaving the next sentence with your comments. As always, thanks for reading and thanks for playing.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Mrs. Blendinson couldn’t answer. Couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten to this point or what she should do next. She cursed Freddie. Wait until she saw him again. She was planning on pulling out her aristocratic air when her eye was drawn to her wrist, where the midget had just swiped her stolen, diamond-studded watch. The Little Man lifted it to his big ear, an island in his thinning hair, and smiled. She could only watch her watch as he winked and pocketed it. Something had to be done.

What has to be done next is up to you and your sentence…

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Story’s Still On Fire

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Photo From: Other Things Amanzi

Can you believe we’re about to enter our third month with this round of Build A Story? Eccentricity loves company, so I’m glad our readers/contributors have been sticking around this tale and giving our dear, immoral Mrs. Blendinson a colorful cast of people to play with. And so far that includes the mysterious circus impresario Mr. Freddie, a sad clown who gets beat up for extra money, a hard-drinking, gun-toting dancing bear, a sword-swallower who survived a sabotaged flamethrower, and an as-yet-unidentified person at the door of Mrs. Blendinson’s trailer.

Act now and you and your sentence can bring this new character to life. So read our story-so-far and spark it further with your imagination:

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

Knock. Knock. Who’s there? Take us your where sentence your dares…

LATFOB – What Stuck With Me Part 2

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Photo by Carolyn Kraft

“Fiction is like a trust fall. Sometimes the story catches you and sometimes it doesn’t…and you wake up with a bump on your head.”

“Why is calling something realistic a compliment? Just because something’s realistic doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Everything that talks about the human situation is political.”

“The point of every story is that there are two sides of things, both good and bad, optimistic and pessimistic.”

“I tend to write when I’m upset about something.”

“I spent fifteen hours on a plane to Argentina with a fat German next to me who farted the entire time.”

“Freeze your jeans. Kills the germs from farting.”

“Eventually every Wikipedia article leads to squid.”

“The Internet is a terrible distraction for writers.”

“Starting is just about writing sentences, collecting voices. Need to be comfortable being in the dark.”

“People really want short stories. They buy novels, but really they don’t want them.”

“Reading a work in translation is like kissing someone through a handkerchief…which does have a kinky charm to it.”

“Robert Louis Stevenson based the character of Long John Silver on a friend with all of his finer qualities removed.”

“Fiction is the exploration of the self in the world.”

“All of us are many people and writing is a way to expose our other personalities.”

“You know who’s got great beer? The Czech Republic. You should go there.”

“I write with the feeling that the book could go anywhere, that the whole premise could change in the middle of a sentence.”

“Form is what makes fiction transcendent.”

“As Robert Frost wrote, ‘No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.'”

“Does reading have to be a totally immersive experience? Can’t it be ‘I like this story/I like this sentence.’?”

“I like transparency in art, the idea of knowing that this was created by someone. Jackson Pollack included his own detritus in his paintings: tobacco, dirt, lint. It’s nice to feel like you’re interacting with the creation of the work.”

“There’s this whole idea of momentum in modern fiction, that the  writer has to pick a reader up and carry him or her forward and then drop them off at a certain point, unchanged, probably, at the most a bit breathless and flushed.”

 

The preceding witticisms and wisdom were recorded on a miniature yellow notebook on Sunday April 22 at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. The purveyors of said perspicacity were an anonymous festival-goer and the following authors: Etgar Keret, Sara Levine, Ben Loory, Amelia Gray, Elizabeth Crane, Ben Ehrenreich, Mark Leyner, and Aimee Bender.

LATFOB – What Stuck With Me Part 1

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Photo by Carolyn Kraft

“Starting a book trying to achieve the big picture will get you into trouble.”

“You can’t be an American novelist and not be haunted by The Great Gatsby.”

“Reinvention. Characters who try always fail…and that’s a novel.”

“Cormac McCarthy has three books where babies are being eaten. How does he get away with that?”

The answer to our nation’s problems is craft brewing. It’s the artisanal movement that’s going to save us.”

“75% of all literary fiction readers are female.”

“I refuse to have a cover with a beheaded woman on it.”

“Can’t think about who’s going to like your book while you’re writing it.”

“Fiction is an act of prolonged empathy.”

“Writing is about trying to be less afraid.”

“The reward of writing is the opportunity of having a genuine experience.”

“Worst thing to do as a writer is to be afraid of writing from the perspective of gender or race other than one’s own.”

“You can’t read a great novel and update your Facebook status at the same time.”

“I want to entertain myself at the same time I’m trying to entertain my audience.”

“You never stop coming of age.”

“When you go into a project nervous–that’s a good sign.”

“If you’re from the South and someone kills a person in front of you, the proper thing to say is ‘Well, that was a very interesting choice.'”

“While you’re writing, always ask yourself ‘Is it true?'”

“The hive mind is in ascendance.”

“YA writers have established a community; they even write together.”

“This is the golden age of storytelling in YA fiction.”

“To be a reader now is really to be in pig heaven.”

“There needs to be more diversity in YA literature. Overall, there’s not a lot of people of color [in executive positions] in the publishing industry.”

“Transvaginal wanding is not just my drag name.”

“Fairytales take away the burden of originality. They are like a river of stories we can dip into and swim around in.”

“Fairytales invite us to change the world as we know it. And because it is a world of change it’s possible to take the marginal characters and make them the center of the story.”

“Fairytales are constantly recast to fit the culture.”

“Ultimately what we take away from fairytales isn’t their morals but their sense of wonderment.”

“It is so pleasurable to read as a child.”

“Finding yourself as a writer is discovering what really moves you as a reader.”

“Writing is intuitive. Like a person stumbling around a dark room, a dark forest. Images become stepping stones to get across the river.”

“Post-modern novels seem to be contemptuous of the reader.”

“The first job of the writer isn’t to cater to the audience.”

“The challenge is clarity.”

“Amazing that out of nothing can come a novel.”

 

The wit and wisdom above was collected onto a miniature yellow notepad Saturday April 21 at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. Said perspicacity was uttered by anonymous festival-goers, as well as the novelists Chad Harbach, Lauren Groff, Jonathan Evison, Anthony Giardina,  Libba Bray, Pete Hautman, Aimee Bender, Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, Trinie Dalton, Jack Gantos, Ransom Riggs, and Thane Rosenbaum.

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Still Saber Rattling

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Photo by brdavids

Many thanks to our regular contributors who’ve been keeping this thing rolling. I’m happy to announce you’ve helped us reach a personal best in word count (almost 1400), and this tale feels like it’s got a lifespan of at least 4000. If you’re a new reader or you’ve been following along for awhile and haven’t proffered a sentence yet, go ahead and give it a shot, we’d love to get your creative stamp on this story.

Here’s what we have so far:

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

 She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

 “What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

Woah. Looking forward to  where the next sentence takes us. Let it be your sentence…

Guest Blogger – Mike Nubarb

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Mike Nubarb's Dream Security Monitor

Here’s the second in a series of guest blogs. Please welcome Mike Nubarb!

 

Hey, I’m Mike, I’m the manager at Store and Go Storage in Palms, Los Angeles, California. Basically all day I’m just watching my computer. Cuz all the security cameras broadcast back to my monitor so the screen’s divided up into maybe twelve different screens within one screen. It’s like I’m watching twelve different movies at once. And I sign off on rental contracts. So yeah, my day can be kind of exhausting but at the same time it’s pretty cool being the manager because I can take unlimited smoke breaks, and I’m pretty sure the regular employees only get two ten minute breaks during an eight-hour shift. But don’t get the wrong idea here. What I mean is that perk was a big deal when I was smoking but I quit almost a month ago. So don’t write me off ladies.

I could go on about my job and what I do all day, but to be honest I like to leave my job at the job. I don’t bring my work home with me. And the ladies are into honest guys, right? That’s a big deal for them. So okay ladies, right off the bat you know (a) I’m honest and (b) I don’t smoke. Two checks in the pro column for Mike.

Actually there should be three checks in the pro column because (c) I’m in Upper-Middle Management. Okay, wait, Honest Mike needs to step in for a second. I don’t know that I’m actually in Upper-Middle Management, I haven’t ever seen a corporate chart for Store and Go. But I picture it kind of like the NCAA bracket, and I’m seeing myself at least in the Sweet Sixteen.

That speaks to another thing you should know about me. I like sports, so I’ll probably make a lot of sports references like the above the more we spend time together. I’m from Ohio originally and since I’ve been living out here I’ve done a lot of apologizing for the Browns, Indians and Cavaliers. Suck it LeBron! So anyway, I’ve kind of adopted the Clippers as my new team. Yeah, yeah, yeah, make room for Mike on the bandwagon. Hilarious, guys. Beat LA!

Wait, you know I mean Beat the Lakers, right? Because they suck.

Now I get it that a lot of the ladies out there don’t like sports, they like to watch girly movies instead. That’s fine. I love girly movies. I’ve seen Sucker Punch and I’d totally see Sucker Punch 2 and Sucker Punch 3 if they ever get their asses in gear and make them. Hello Hollywood, are you listening?

Okay, so there’s a little taste of Mike Nubarb. I’ve been promised at least another blog post so I don’t want to give you a full meal just yet. Consider this like an appetizer I’ve brought to the relationship table.

Been great getting to know you. Talk soon. Late.

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Still Dancing

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By elail 479

Most people don’t realize that although our ancestors ultimately chose the bunny rabbit to represent the commercial aspect of Easter, that role was originally embodied by the dancing circus bear.  They finally had to make a change, however, because too many children were being eaten during the Easter egg hunts. And they had to blame somebody for it.

Just a little trivia to put you in the holiday spirit.

Of course what should really put you in the holiday spirit is the chance to add onto the continuing saga of Mrs. Blendinson and her circus-related adversaries. Please lend your eyes to our story-so-far and then build on with a sentence of your own in the comments. Thanks for playing, and a Happy Easter and/or Passover to you all.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

 She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

I don’t know what happens next, but I bet you do…

Guest Blogger – Eugenia Spotty

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Photo by Kevin Dooley

I’ve been working recently on a pretty intensive screenwriting project, leaving my blog untended for longer than I’d like. Figured it was time to enlist the aid of some guest bloggers to help carry the load. Today’s featured post is from one of my downstairs neighbors, retired church secretary Eugenia Spotty. Thank you, Eugenia!

 

Goodness. So much space to fill. Didn’t quite know what I was agreeing to here. But I did so okay then.

I guess I just do it huh. Here I go. Bogging. Yep. Yep. Yep. I’m bogging now. And when I write this too? Is that bogging? I guess it is. Am I done? Yikes. Lots of blank space down there still.

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That’s cheating I know. But it looks kind of neat all those dollar signs lined up like that. Makes me want to spend money. Could use some new rubber bands actually.

Yes, I know it’s cheating Darlene!!! Thank you for coming in here and spitting Oreos all over just to say that!!!

Boy that’s three exclamation points each up there. I should probably fix that. Don’t want you to think I can actually raise my voice as loud as three exclamation points. That would put me only two exclamation points away from God. Not there yet.

Sorry. Back to bogging. What did Bryan say? Treat it like a diary kind of?

March 28– My grand niece Darlene is here visiting for spring break. Does not give a fig what she puts in her mouth. Actually, figs would be a nice change of pace. Child eats way too many Oreos if you ask me. But does her mother ask me? Nope. Just ships her out here with two packs of the devil’s cookies and now I’ve got to deal with it.

Boy that’s really gossipy. Or maybe that’s what bogging is? I don’t know. I should probably take that part out in case Darlene comes back in the room.

Heck you know what, eye for an eye, I’ll just gossip about myself to make up for it.

March 28 – I’m too agreeable sometimes. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Susan who checks me out at the Rite Aid thinks so too. First about taking Darlene for a week and then about the Oreos and then about this bog. I can hear Susan now. Eugenia dear you’re just too agreeable, honestly. Only it takes her awhile to get it out because she coughs a lot. She has one of those cigarette voices. I always think, any day now when I’m vacuuming up the dead flowers at the church cemetery I’ll see a tombstone with her name on it. Though I guess I don’t know if I’d know it was her because I don’t know her last name and the tombstone wouldn’t just say Susan on it.

Boy that’s pretty gossipy about Susan. Guess I’ve got to give another eye so to speak. But what’s that saying about eye for an eye until everyone’s blind? So maybe it’s silly for me to go blind when I doubt Susan will ever read this bog. She told me herself all she reads is body rippers or something like that. They sound like the books Pastor Gary says Eve would’ve checked out of Hell’s library. Should probably bring her my Bible the next time I’m in for rubberbands.

So is that it? Am I done with the bogging?

Oh lord Darlene’s back and she’s wiping her Oreo fingers all over the cat. Poor Folgers!! Mommy’s coming to save you. Gotta go now. Goodness there’s still so much blank space down there.

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