So...Close...

Okay, so I know it's been 2 and a half months since I've posted anything, but I just want you all to know. . .

There is a comic at the end of the tunnel!

I will be graduating a week from Friday (insert sigh of relief followed by blood-curdling scream due to remembrance of all the crap I gotta do before then) in which case I will actually have time to do things!  Of those things shall be posting on here!  Whoop whoop!

So do not fret, Porkchaps, I will return shortly!  In the meantime, I hope you all had a marvelous Thanksgiving and good luck on any exams and things you might have!

Raquel the Vegetarian Zombie

So you guys know how I was honored to be a guest contributor on that dude Jonny Jimison's stupendous blog Getting Ethan? Well guess who managed to snag him for a guest comic on MY blog????

Don't strain yourselves.  It's me.

So, Porkchaps, I implore you to feast your eyes on the wonderful randomness that occurs when I tell people to write stuff and I don't give them a topic.

I dunno.  I think I'd totally risk bullet wounds for brains.

Yes, Irene.  It is indeed.

Technological Evil

So it's still Amy week, and apparently she has major issues with personified PCs.

Let's take a look, shall we?

I'm So Sorry. . .

a poem by Amy Sandusky

Once again I

Failed

You as I

Always

Tend to do.

Looking

Back you must

Hate

Me or at

Least

Cringe with distaste

When

I fall short

Again.

Please forgive me

Forget

My constant shortcomings.

Look

Beyond my past.

Please

Remember my intentions

And

Above all else

Don’t

Trade me in

For

An Apple computer.

###

And now Amy has decided "Screw it" doesn't even try to disguise her extreme loathing of the subject of this next poem, which is simply entitled. . .

EVIL COMPUTER

a poem by Amy 

Evil computer

You make me feel dumb

You ransack my brain

And that is no fun

You question my mind

And tease me all day

You think that you’re smart

I must do as you say

I bite off my nails

And pull out my hair

Your screen goes blank

And gives me a scare

You make a few beeps

Laughing in my face

The screen comes back on

The memory’s erased

I shell out my wallet

To get you fixed up

And after I’m broke

You say ‘that’s enough’

You come back to life

I shower you praise

I bring you back home

I’m truly amazed

I set you back up

And get back to work

And then you freeze up

I call you a jerk

You’re an evil computer

But now I have won

To the trash you will go

For now you are done

"Easy, Amy, easy.  It's over now.  Shhhh. . ."

Once again, I implore you to read Amy's amazabulous blog of musings, "This Is Why I Write."  'Tis nifty with a capital Nuh!

My Greatest Hour

Hello again, Porkchaps!  So our good pal Amy has decided to grace us with her presence again with her short story, "My Greatest Hour."  Enjoy!

I knew I should have worn jeans. It had been only minutes and my knees were already aching from the unflinching position I held, crouched in the grass. I was careful not to make a sound or even breathe too loudly. Silence was key. I had no watch but from the way the shadows had moved across the ground I guessed ten minutes might have passed by. I felt a tickle in my nose, no doubt caused by the pollen in the air. I resisted a sneeze. It would give away my position for sure and that was the last thing I needed. I could not be found. I had hidden here before, even leaving my name etched in the bark of one of the trees I used for cover. “Kyle N.” I rubbed my forefinger over the scratches. Even after all these months it still shined clearly. 

A rustle in the distance. I shrunk deeper into the earth. 

“Have we checked here yet?” a voice whispered. 

My body tensed and I held my breath. 

“He’d have to be stupid,” came the reply. 

I let the air escape my lungs slowly. I still wasn’t out of the woods yet. The day was cooling off as the sun began its decent. How much longer did I have to wait? The minutes felt like hours and my legs throbbed in protest. My eyes darted, looking for something to take my mind off the pain. The bush that hid my left side was great cover. My face being inches from the branches, I could see the insects that had made their home there. Caterpillars, ants, spiders, bees…. 

My breath caught and I stifled a yelp. Bees. Who knew they lived in bushes too? I could hear footsteps in the distance reminding me to stay quiet, but inside I was screaming. A single bee was my kryptonite. I suddenly remembered my mother sitting me down when I was little, holding a toy bee in her hands. The toy was only the size of a quarter and looked small in her palm. 

“Kyle, you see this?” 

I nodded. 

And then she threw it against the wall. “Bees are bad.” 

From that moment on I was afraid to hand her any of my toys for fear they would meet the same fate. Later my older sister explained to me that our mom was all about visualizing to make a point. She taught us to always brush our teeth by showing us pictures of rotting molars. I never missed a day after that. 

The buzzing brought me back to reality. I was very practiced at being still and hoped the bee would lose interest soon. I could not afford to be found. I had been, in a sense, training for this moment for quite a long time. The disciplines, endurance, patience, strategy, all are things I had been building up in my life, undoubtedly for this very moment. The bee would not get to me. If I was stung, at least I would still be hidden, albeit passed out and hardly breathing. I would conquer the bee. And so I sat. 
Time continued to crawl by. My stomach grumbled. Food, it groaned. I looked down at my middle, knowing there was nothing I could do to satisfy it without revealing my position. I only wished it wouldn’t be so loud. I had almost lost feeling in my legs now.

The crouching stance I held was too much to keep so I resorted to sitting with my legs pulled up to my chest. Hopefully I would not need a quick getaway. There would be some difficulty in my escape if I had to rush out of my hiding place. Definitely scratches and maybe even some ripped clothes. But I didn’t need to think about that. I was perfectly undisclosed. No chance my pursuers would find me. 
The sun was nearly gone and it seemed I had avoided capture. But it wasn’t over yet. The darkness was on my side now and I would use it to my advantage. Just a few more minutes…. 

A warm breeze flowed through the bushes and touched my face. It was soothing and refreshing. Had long had I been there? I racked my brains but it only made me yawn. For a moment I closed my eyes. 

A whistle blew and I jumped, bumping my head into a low branch. A sudden feeling of tickling made my skin crawl. It was dark, but I could feel little somethings inching their way across my scalp and arms. The need to yell was rising in my throat but I fought it. Instead I held my breath and began batting at my skin. It felt like fire ants biting and stinging. As much as I was put off by the attack, I was silently thankful it wasn’t a bee. I managed to shake all the ants off but now a burning sensation was taking over my skin. I resisted the urge to scratch by concentrating on where the whistle might have come from. Was it an alarm? Were they regrouping? Was I still safe? I peered through the bush forcing myself to see through the black. My eyes were met with an interesting sight. A dog was staring right back at me. Its muzzle was not that of a friendly dog, but one that would love to see what I tasted like. 

I had another instant vision of my mother. She was holding a piece of bacon in front of a stray dog that had wandered into our back yard. She walked to the gate and threw the bacon as far as she could. The dog bolted after the meat and my mother promptly shut the gate. Part of me wished desperately for some bacon, the other part of me realized just how often my mother threw things. With my left hand, I felt along the earth for a rock or stick. Maybe this dog was just lonely. While tossing the object might jeopardize my position, I figured publicity was not worse than death. 

I leaned up, raised my hand and threw the stick over the bush. For a split second I thought it hadn’t worked, the dog was still staring me dead in the eye. After the longest second of my life, the dog spun around and darted after the stick. I knew he would be back, and it was for that reason I decided to come out of hiding. I crawled out of the bush, careful not to bump anything too hard for fear of more ants, or even worse, bees. The open air hit me like a ton of bricks, and so did the sounds to follow. 

“There he is!” 

“Get him!” 

“KYLE!” 

I jumped, seeing the dark figures of my pursuers in the distance. I whipped my head, spotting my new destination and took off, running as fast as my cramped legs would take me. Their feet pounded the ground behind me, but I could barely hear it over the sound of my own gasping for breath. 

They were closing in, but I was still faster. I had been training for this moment. I saw the spot, my sanctuary. I threw my body onto the sacred ground mere seconds before my pursuers reached the same speck of land. I was safe. 

“I won!” I gasped. I couldn’t quite see, but I could feel the glares. 

“Whatever,” I heard Aaron say. “Wanna go another round?” 

I closed my eyes, exhaustion setting in, my body sprawled out on the grass. “Not it!” 

“Not it!” 

“Not it!” 

“Not it!” 

“Hey! I was it last time!” 

“You were also slowest last time. We can’t help that.” 

Aaron grabbed my hand and pulled me up to my feet. The five of us trekked out into the darkness for another epic game of hide and seek.

#

Remember to check out Amy's blog, This Is Why I Write!

Beau and Dutch: The Final Final Misadventure

All right, everyone!  The epic final conclusion to the final misadventure is finally here! Mighty fine!

How appropriate we should read a ghost story on Friday the 13th.  Spooky.

Once again, I implore you to check out the blog of Beth Arnold (Alias: Bethington Quagmire Jones) here.  "Basically it's just a place where I share my art, writing, crafts, recipes, etc. It's 

a place for the creative-at-heart."  Who in all good conscience and owning a heart with a thirst for a creative outlet, can say no to that?

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

The Final Misadventure of Beau and Dutch

by Beth Arnold

        They next day was a blur. When Beau woke up at seven, Dutch was already downstairs drinking his coffee. They didn’t talk much, they just drank until the pot was empty and they were forced to begin their day. From morning until night, they spent it fixing loose boards, cutting down dead tree limbs and removing spiders from the premises. Beau wasn’t sure why, but Dutch had been in a weird mood all day. He wasn’t talking much, he wasn’t joking around, and most the concerning, he was not threatening Beau’s life. Maybe he just didn’t get enough sleep. By the time they both stopped their work, it was dark outside. They ate sandwiches for dinner and once they realized how exhausted they were, they decided to go straight to bed. It was about nine o’clock when they went upstairs. They said good night, shut their doors and collapsed into near-comas.

        A few hours later, Dutch was jolted awake by the sound the door slamming downstairs again, then footsteps coming up the stairs. He turned on his lamp immediately, but this time he found it hard to move. He knew that the wind hadn’t knocked a limb onto the roof last night. Someone had been in the house, and turned on all the lights downstairs. And whatever did it was back, and was now upstairs. After a moment he heard a door close. Dutch tried to calmhimself. Maybe it was just Beau? He finally found the courage to move his legs. He stood up and moved slowly to his door. He cracked it just barely to peek into the hallway. It was dark, but it looked clear. He swung the door open and stepped forward into the hallway. He quickly opened Beau’s bedroom door, entered the room and shut the door behind him. Dutch pressed himself firmly against the back of the door, as if to barricade someone from getting in. Dutch looked over to the small twin bed, he now felt sorry for tricking his friend into. In it, Beau was sitting straight up, his eyes were wide.

        “Beau,” Dutch said simply.

        “Yes, Dutch?”

        “Were you just downstairs?”

        “Why, no, Dutch,” Beau’s eyes grew wider, “I was actually just wondering the same about you.” Dutch swallowed hard and looked down. He stared intently, as if trying to read words on the floor.

        “Maybe now is the time to tell you that last night, when I went downstairs, I wasn’t the one who had turned on all the lights. Somebody else had.” His voice was hoarse.

        It was at that exact moment, as if on cue, that a music box began playing in the room next door. Dutch leapt across the room, landing on the bed next to Beau. They grabbed hold of each other, as if they were each a raft and they were going down on a sinking ship. They sat silently, one of them keeping an eye on the door while the other looked to the wall from beyond the music was coming. I’m not sure how long exactly they sat there. Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once in that moment. Finally, they turned to look at each other. Without words they knew they couldn’t just sit there forever. With shaking hands, Beau unzipped his sleeping bag and they both stood up. Still holding onto each other, they crept across the room. They both held their breath as they opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. They slid their backs against the hard wood walls, because they were too afraid to leave them exposed. When they reached the door to the little girl’s bedroom, Dutch swallowed dryly and said a prayer under his breath. He reached for the knob, twisted and pushed it open.

        The room was dark and empty. They scanned the area without moving; their eyes were searching, but they weren’t completely sure what for. Then they saw the music box on a corner shelf, sitting among a long line of dolls, which became less innocent, seemed more possessed in their petrified state. They moved as one, slowly across the room, constantly throwing glances over their shoulder. Once they finally reached the music box, the music slowly came to a halt. The silence allowed them to hear something they had not noticed before, fingernails scratching on the wall behind them. Dutch jumped and turned around. Beau also jumped, but arranged himself firmly behind Dutch, using him as a human shield. In front of them was a large mirror. It looked like it was the only one left unshattered in the entire house. But that was not the strange thing about this mirror. No, the strange thing about this particular mirror was the pale young girl looking back at them from it.

        It’s not every day you look straight into the face of a ghost. Most people would be out of there in a matter of seconds, but Beau and Dutch weren’t the brightest of men. They stood, petrified in their places. Beau’s mind began to race. He thought of everything they had gone through those past few days and before he knew it his mouth was running.

        “I told you buying this house was a stupid idea,” Beau whispered, still unable to move his legs.

        “Shut up!” Dutch forced out, his voice cracking.

        “No. Honestly. This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had. And that’s saying a lot, Dutch.”

        Well that did it. Dutch turned around, “Well I’d like to see you come up with any better ones.” He barked.

        “I will!” Beau snapped.

        “Fine!” Dutch yelled.

        “Get out.” The girl whispered Beau and Dutch spun around in horror. Somehow, for a moment they had forgotten the girl.

        “Uh… What?” Dutch asked carefully.

        “Get out!” The ghost screamed.

        And that was it.

        “Yes ma’am!” Beau said, tipping an invisible hat. And then they flew out the door. They ran down the stairs and out the door. They never looked back.

        Back in the house, the girl giggled. The door which held the large false mirror opened and she stepped out from the closet. Mr. and Mrs. BonHeight suddenly appeared at the bedroom door.

        “We got another one, Grandpa!” The girl jumped up and down.

        “We couldn’t have done it without you, Sweetheart!” Mr. BonHeight smiled.

        “That makes seven. How many more people are we going to fool?” She asked, scrunching her face.

        “As many as we can get to agree to move in as-is and without refund!” Mrs. BonHeight laughed. They all sat down on the bed. Mr. BonHeight put his arms around his wife and his granddaughter.

        “It’s a tough world out there. You have to get by doing what you can.” He told them.
Out on the road, Beau was driving their old beat-up car as fast as it could go. Where? They weren’t quite sure yet.

        “Hey, Beau?”

        “Yeah, Dutch?”

        “What do you think about askin’ your dad about getting us some jobs over at the factory?”

        Beau stared through the windshield, taking in the dark road.


        “I think that’s the greatest idea you’ve had yet.”

The End.

Beau and Dutch: Part 2

Part 2/3 is here, my loves!  Also, our lovely Beth Arnold has created a blog to showcase all of her talents: writing, art, photography, the works!  Check it out:
http://bethingtonqjones.blogspot.com/

The Final Misadventure of Beau and Dutch: Part 2

by Beth Arnold

        That’s how it began. Luckily, Dutch talked the old couple who owned the godforsaken house into giving it to them for next to nothing. Dutch was always a little too good at talking people into things, but for whatever reason Mr. and Mrs. BonHeight were pretty eager about the transaction. The only thing they were firm about was that Beau and Dutch take it as-is and that there would be no refunds. Maybe they were just as thrilled about owning the place as Beau was. Beau had thought that the idea would eventually grow on him, but it turned out he grew to dislike it more and more with time. What really threw him over the edge was finally seeing the inside of the place. It would have fit perfectly as a set for an Alfred Hitchcock picture. The BonHeights had left the house full of old furniture and pictures. It had been vacant for a while and everything inside was covered in a thick layer of dust. Some neighborhood kids seemed to have gotten inside at some point, broken all the mirrors in the house and written foreboding messages like, “Get out,” “Help me” and “Die.” Beau was not amused. The sight of dead mice and bugs was also definitely unsettling. But Dutch seemed determined as ever. So determined in fact, that he thought they should move in and dedicate day and night to getting the place ready. The first night in was a little shaky.

        “If you’re making me live in this rotting stink-hole then at the very least I will get the master bedroom.” Beau declared standing in the hallway, blocking the door. There were three bedrooms; the master, one for a little boy and one for a little girl.

        Dutch thought about it for a moment, “That’s fine. I don’t want to sleep in the room Olivia was murdered in anyway.” Beau narrowed his eyes, “Someone died in my bedroom?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Who really knows?” Dutch shrugged innocently. Beau groaned and stepped aside. Dutch chuckled and squeezed past him, claiming the master bedroom as his own. Beau would just sleep in one of the others. He peeked first into the little girl’s room. It was filled with dolls and stuffed animals. He decided he was much too much of a man to accept such a room, and proudly claimed the baseball themed bedroom next door. Beau laid out his sleeping bag over the linens that still covered the small twin sized bed. He thought Dutch was crazy for sleeping in the old sheets in blankets. Who knew what was crawling around in them? He shuddered to himself. He walked back to the door and shut it. It was eleven o’clock at night and he was tired. They had been gathering supplies all day and Dutch expected them to get up bright and early to start getting the place ready. He lay down in bed, zipped up his sleeping bag and turned off the lamp beside him. He began thinking about what they were getting themselves into this time. Sometimes he was sure Dutch was out of his mind. But he was his best friend and he had no idea where he’d be without him. Maybe in a couple years they’d actually stop all this fooling around and get real jobs. Somewhere in the middle of all his thinking, Beau fell asleep.

        When the door slammed downstairs, he jolted upward. He tried to stand up, but ended up getting caught in his sleeping bag and falling to the ground. Suddenly his door flew open and Dutch was standing in his doorway.

        “For Pete’s sake, get off the ground. What’s the matter with you? Those kids are back in the house!” Beau unzipped himself and stood up. Dutch was already gone. He raced downstairs to meet him. Dutch already had all the lights on and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking stumped.

        “Where are they?” Beau asked, ready for a fight.

        “There’s nobody here.” Dutch furrowed his brow.

        “Stop messin' with me.”

        “There's nobody here, Beau!” Beau walked over to back door and turned the knob, it was locked. He went into the living room and tried the front door, but that one was locked too. As Beau checked the doors, Dutch began checking the windows, but they were all securely locked.

        “Someone had to have been here.” Dutch muttered, talking more to himself than his partner in crime. Beau stood in the middle of the floor. He knew for sure he had heard a door slam. He couldn’t handle the maddening thoughts. He closed his eyes and decided not to believe it.

        “It’s windy outside. Maybe a branch fell on the roof and we just let our minds get away with us.” He said, trying to convince himself as much as he was Dutch.

        He faked a yawn and started inching towards the stairs. Hoping Dutch would get the picture. Dutch was silent for a moment but nodded. That was enough for Beau. He turned around and marched right up the stairs where he found and welcomed his bed warmly. Dutch stayed downstairs to turn off all the lights. Before he headed up to his own bed, he stared into the darkness, as if waiting to see something. After a minute, he gave up and cautiously ventured the stairs. Dutch was now also starting to wonder what he’d gotten them into. As he closed his door he wondered nervously whether or not he should tell Beau that he was not the one who turned on all the lights.

#

Oh, snap!  Stay tuned Friday for the climactic conclusion of "The Final Misadventure of Beau and Dutch!"

The Final Misadventure of Beau and Dutch

In keeping with the Month of Awesome Writers, this week I will be featuring another talented woman by the name of Beth Arnold.  She is indeed the sister of Amy Sandusky, whom you all read about last week.  Creativity flows through the veins of that family like the rapids of the Colorado.  This is part one of three of her awesome short story.  Horror and humor, the perfect combination to get us ready for that magical holiday called All Hallow's Eve.  You'll enjoy the ride. ;)

The Final Misadventure of Beau and Dutch

by Beth Arnold

        It’s not every day you look straight into the face of a ghost. Most people would be out of there in a matter of seconds, but Beau and Dutch weren't the brightest of men. But I’m getting ahead of myself, let’s back up a little bit.

        Beau and Dutch had been friends since elementary school. Neither one of them had much luck in classes or on the playground, so they decided to band together. As far as Beau could see, even Dutch was better to play with than his little sister, Ava, who always insisted on playing dress-up. Dutch was the older of the two, by three whole months, and he never let Beau forget it. He figured if the Lord Almighty put him on this earth first, than the Good Lord must have wanted him to be the one in charge. Even with all the fires, broken windows, injuries and muddy foot prints that came with the fast-growing brotherhood, Beau’s mother was relieved that he finally had a friend. Dutch’s mother barely even noticed, what with her other five children constantly causing trouble. As they got older, they had their good times and bad, but they never left each other’s side. Toward the end of high school, Dutch’s parents sat him down and told him that they didn't have the money to send him to college. After his mom had triplets the previous year, funds had just gotten away from them. Dutch took it hard, he was convinced that if he didn't go to college that he’d never make anything of himself. It wasn't until Beau told him he wasn't going to college either, that Dutch seemed to perk up. Beau’s parents could have afforded college for him, but their son’s grades would only allow it with the help of a grand miracle. Beau decided to not even try.

        “We’ll both not go to college together! And we’ll show ‘em! We’ll still make something of ourselves.” Beau would say.

        It was from that point that Beau and Dutch began coming up with their hair-brained schemes. They began their careers scalping tickets to the latest shows and sports games in town. That didn't last very long. Then they tried dog walking, but that came to a sudden halt when Dutch accidentally slammed a car door on the tail of Mrs. Bronswin’s prize German Shepard. There was a short stint where Dutch played a magician and had Beau dress up as a clown for children’s birthday parties, but apparently people don’t get too happy when their child’s gifts are set aflame. Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t mentally challenged. Dutch was just convinced that the less effort put into something, the better. It wasn’t until their drive home from their final birthday party that our story begins.

        Beau was driving, although he couldn't help but wonder how much longer their old beat-up car would keep moving. Every so often it would jolt forward for a second, and then stutter back to its original speed. Dutch was cradling his head in his hands, letting out sporadic moans of emotional agony.

        “Why?” He groaned, “Who knew wrapping paper was flammable?”

        “Stop thinking about it, what’s done is done.” Beau said simply.

        After over a decade of being around Dutch, Beau had trained himself to forgive, forget and look forward. Something that was next to impossible for Dutch.

        “Don’t tell me what to do! I can be upset all I want!” Dutch barked, still holding onto his head.

        “Well can you at least stop whining and moaning like that? It’s aggravating and you sound like an idiot.”

        Dutch whipped around so fast, that Beau didn't even see the closed fist flying at his arm.

        “Ow! Hey! You can’t hit the driver!”

        “Then pull over, I’ll drive. The driver can hit the passenger all he wants.” Beau just sighed, “It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

        “Yeah, but I was really getting good at guessing which card they’d pull outta the deck! I’d get it right at least half the time!”

        “Just because you guess the correct suit, doesn't mean you got it right, Dutch” Dutch just looked out his window and muttered obscenities to himself.

        It was October. The trees were full of orange leaves, if they had any leaves at all. The browning grass seemed to be claiming ownership of whatever the trees no longer wanted. The windows were down and the car was filled with a chill air that seemed almost hostile. Beau had hoped the cold air would help clear Dutch’s head, but every so often when a breeze would sweep through, Beau couldn’t help but let a chatter escape his teeth. He hated cold weather. He couldn’t take it anymore. He began rolling up his window. It was then that he heard Dutch gasp. It was such a gasp that he was almost positive that Dutch had been shot with some silent bullet. He slammed on the brakes.

        “What’s wrong?” He demanded as Dutch flew forward and slammed his head on the dashboard. He never wore his seat belt.

        “What the heck is wrong with you?” Dutch growled, but he continued to look out the window. He hesitated only a moment, before opening his door and jumping out. Beau didn’t know what to say, his confusion had him stupefied. So he just put the car in park opened his door and followed his friend. He jogged forward to catch up to Dutch, who was marching forward rapidly. When Dutch came to a sudden stop, Beau crashed right into him. And since Beau was about fifty pounds less than Dutch, he fell right to the ground. Dutch never looked anywhere but forward.

        “What is going on?” Beau demanded, but his friend did not reply. He rolled onto his knees and crawled to Dutch’s side, where he finally looked up. It was a house. Why all the commotion? He didn't understand. Beau squinted his eyes and tried to find what was so fascinating. It was a small two story house, made of whatever wood was sorrowfully left over from hungry termites. The window shutters looked to be hanging by threads, and the entire home seemed to be in danger of having a giant, dead, moss-covered oak tree fall right on top of it. It just may have been the ugliest house he’d ever laid eyes on.

        “It’s perfect.” Dutch whispered finally.

        “Are you mad? It looks like a witch left a curse on it.”

        “Exactly.” Dutch’s eyes were wide. Beau looked over to a sign a few feet in front of them, a sign that told him that this terrible God-forsaken house was for sale. Who would try to sell this thing? It should have been burned straight to the ground.

        “Okay, Dutch. Start talking.”

        “We’re going to buy it.” A slow smile crept over Dutch’s face. A smile Beau knew all too well. He kept his sarcasm to himself and waited for his friend to continue.

        “This house looks like hell.” He said, finally something Beau could agree with. “We’re going to buy it and host haunted tours, telling the horrifying tales of death that happened inside of it.”

        “But, Dutch, we don’t know that anyone died in this house.”

        “Yeah,” Dutch chuckled, “but neither does anyone else.”

#

Stay tuned for the next installment coming up on Wednesday!

Musings

Hello, everyone!  So this entry is going to kick-off my month chock-full of wonderful guest posts from wonderful authors and artists!  It will be full of fiction, non-fiction, random doodles, and heart-felt jargon.  This first post is from the lovely Amy Sandusky on the topic of the inaptly-named writer's block, entitled, "Musings."

Musings

by Amy Sandusky

What, one might ask, is the purpose of a glass door?  Could it be that its owner enjoys the smell and continuous use of Windex?  Does the sun shine particularly bright in that area of the house to merit the ginormous and almost completely unnecessary window that takes more effort to open and remember to lock than anyone has the patience for?  Or, and I daresay this is the true reason, is it that the home owner realizes that the only real source of humility comes from when one meets the invisible door and is forced to a wicked and agonizing stop. It’s something we’ve all done at least once in our lives and there is absolutely no way to spare someone else the pain or embarrassment that is colliding rather forcefully with a sliding glass door.

                Anyone who speaks with me more than five minutes knows my dependency on analogies.  I don’t honestly know if I can go a full conversation without using one.  It helps me bring what could feel like a sizable problem to a realm of understanding.  In other words, big becomes small, and small is good.  Hence my door metaphor…. (that rhymed, oh that makes me happy!)

                I’ve been working on a book this year.  Your Patty has been graciously lending me her eyes and ears to help guide me through the often terrorizing journey of creating a world from scratch.  Our weekly meetings have transformed into the “EPIC” Writers meetings.  I am the Crown Grandmaster of Writermonies, Amy.  Nice to meet you.

                Anywho, I tend to chase rabbits.  Back to the door.  I realized today that I have run into my own invisible glass door and have actually been spending the last few weeks trying to figure out “how did that get there?”  This is probably just writer’s block, but to be honest, I don’t like that term.  You can climb over a block.  You can’t run through a glass door.  You have to figure out how to slide it open, or maybe even avoid it next time.

                I shouldn’t be so hard on the door.  It was just doing its job, sitting there all sparkly clean and see-through.  I was running so fast with my book in my hands, I wasn’t looking ahead and barreled right into it.  If I was looking up, I might have seen the smudges from the last time I hit it….

                Now that I realize what stopped me, I can appreciate it.  Perhaps “writer’s block”, or the new term “writer’s glass door” can be used to help refocus a project that is not bad, but merely moving too fast.  It’s best that I hit something that will allow me to bounce back verses something that will destroy what I’m holding.  I mean, I could have run into a ring of fire that burned up my book, or I could have fallen in a deep pit and found that I could never come out.  That would be a bit terrifying on top of detrimental to my creative standing and hope of ever being a published author.

                In short (and I suppose it’s too late to say that), I’ve come to the conclusion that writing is not about your momentum.  That’s stupid.  It should be about quality.  The best things in life, and in the creation of the next epic story, take time.  I think I will take a moment to wipe off the slobber mark I left on the glass door, gather my fallen pages, and slide the door carefully open.  I’ll close it behind me, of course.  You never know when someone else will need that jarring reminder to stop and appreciate the work that’s been done and, more importantly, evaluate the direction that is being taken.

                Or, someone might just want to laugh their butt off when the next idiot runs headlong into a clearly mark door.  Whatever works.  Some people juggle geese.  ;)

Amy is a very talented writer and one of my best friends!  I convinced her to start her own blog called "This Is Why I Write" where she posts all of her awesome work, ranging from poetry to stories to essays.  I highly recommend her.  She is my inspiration.  She is wondies.