Blogging, and Speed Writing

first off, once again, have said it before, it’s still abundantly clear, i suck at blogging. i spend way too much time committing my thoughts to Wastebook, and almost no time putting them here, a far more stable platform.
some days, i ain’t exactly heaven’s brightest ray o’ sunshine…

speed writing 12/5/15
prompt: a stripper at the office Christmas party

when Carter told me, i was floored. old man Pettigrew was a real Scrooge anyway, and the office parties were generally sad affairs, unless the employees pitched in and brought desserts or deli trays.
so yeah, when Carter told me Pettigrew was springing for a stripper, at a party with men and women in attendance, i couldn’t believe it.
in retrospect, the old man had been getting more and more eccentric lately – like when he talked about paying everyone in postage stamps, and he’d taken to locking himself in his office with the shades down, loud Wagnerian opera blasting from inside, with Pettigrew singing along in gibberish.
there was a pool going as to when he’d have a stroke, and another for when they’d haul him away to the laughing academy.
on the day, for once he put out a decent spread, all kinds of goodies, and with the employees contributions it was a real feast.
best party ever…
until the cake was wheeled in. red and green, Christmas colors, and when it broke open, out popped Pettigrew, dressed like a cut-rate Brunhilda in a Santa cap, singing in gibberish and flinging costume pieces off indiscriminately.
they took him away. december 19th.  dammit, i had january 4th in the crazy pool.

prompt: write about what you can’t see

never cared for the dark, and being blind has always been a nightmare of mine.
so when my eyes started going bad, and surgery wasn’t an option, i freaked out. anxiety attacks, pretty severe, until the doctors told me i wouldn’t lose my eyesight completely. that and the anxiety meds , helped a lot. the world was just going to grow dim, even in the brightest sunlight. i had my house outfitted with high lumen bulbs, and figured i would make do.
sitting in my bedroom one night, reading with the help of three intense lights mounted over the bed, someone said, “think it’s bright enough in here?”
i live alone, so i levitated three feet straight up, and looked around for who had spoken.
“give it up, kid,” the voice said. sounded male, middle-aged, with some sort of accent. “you couldn’t see me before your eyes got screwy – no chance of it now.”
“so… uh… who are you? what are you?”
i was pretty sure i was going batshit crazy.
“i ain’t nothin’ and no one. but don’t worry, you’ll hear from me again…”

prompt: so how did the house catch on fire?

one of the reasons i stopped smoking was a bad scare, falling asleep with a lit cigarette. i figured if i couldn’t trust myself n ot to end up in a burning bed, i had no business with the nasty habit anyway.
it was a rough six months, but i quit.
my uncle Mack, on the other hand, didn’t. he’d been puffing on those horrible, smelly, cheap cigars all my life, and when he and aunt May came to visit for the holidays, i set out the rules, knowing he’d ignore them.
no smoking in the house, period.
if he smoked out back, put the soggy butts of the stogies in the trash bucket i’d thoughtfully provided.
if he smoked out front, take the butts around to the back, NOT THROUGH THE HOUSE, and use said bucket.
i don’t know why i bothered, i knew he’d ignore me, but it was one of those stupid, futile things you do just so you can say you’ve tried.
four times, very first day of their visit, i shooed him outside.
i looked at my bank account and considered subsisting on ramen and mac and cheese so i could put them up in a hotel.
woke up the next morning, could smell the cigars he’d smoked in the night, and found the butts in the toilet bowl.
seven times i sent him out back that day. it seemed as soon as i turned my back, or left the room, he lit up.
if i didn’t want to stay in their will, i’d have kicked them out into the street.
(that’s when i ran out of time, but it was going to end with the uncle setting the christmas tree on fire)

prompt: you see a celebrity hitchiking

it was in the vast wasteland of arizona when the starbucks triple espresso-red bull-mountain dew concoction kicked in, and the air was suddenly filled with ravens, their cries of ‘nevermore’ providing a greek chorus to the music Sandy had playing… her Justin Bieber mix.
hellish enough indeed, and i wondered if she was secretly a Canadian were-moose, trying to pollute the vital bodily fluids of this pure-blood Texan with her evil sexual magics.
i clenched a handful of pixie stix between my teeth and threw my head back, choking on the sugary sand pouring down my throat.
Sandy slammed on the brakes, and as our speed dropped from its raven-evading ninety-five to thirty, she used the handbrake as well, spinning us across the asphalt like a carousel gone mad.
orbiting us in our dervish-like deceleration i saw a bearded figure in a bathrobe, shorts, and flip-flops, carrying a bowling ball bag.
“Sandy, Sandy, goddamnit, we can’t stop here, we have no bust of Pallas, and i can’t stand the thought of those demon bird feet getting tangled in my hair!”
Sandy’s antlers were showing, and they’d replaced her ears, so she couldn’t hear me.
“Hey Dude, need a ride?” she asked the hitchhiker.

prompt: your great-aunt leaves you a restaurant

i’ll never know why Great Aunt Maggie Fay, Southerner to the core, decided a Greek-Indian fusion restaurant was a good idea. even less idea why she thought to open it in our little town of Hadley, population 1803, and less clue how it stayed in business for 23 years.
as to why she left it to me, this i understand.
she’d hated me ever since i was a baby and had vomited all over her faux fox fur stole.
no, i’m not imagining that hatred or the reason for it – she spelled it out in her will.
so, after all the legal issues were handled, i owned ‘Shiva Nike’ – the land, the building, the adjoining lot used for parking, and a twenty-three year tradition of tasty but incomprehensible food. a menu board in Greek and whatever the hell Indian dialect she chose was a staple of the place.
no translations – ever.
no explanations – ever.
the menu board changed daily. only one employee, the cook, a wizened old albino, knew what his scribblings meant, and he didn’t tell anyone.
so, first thing – change the menu and the restaurant name.
ever had 1803 people standing outside your restaurant with pitchforks and torches, burning you in effigy?
fun times, you bet.

listening to: “Once Upon A Time In The West” – Dire Straits
mood: rather sad

 

 

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