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 Here I go down a rabbit hole. What will I encounter? What will I write? Viva l'imagination |
| Challenges await... |
| Hubby and I had decided to pack up and move again. This time the logistics were different. Sure, everything we owned had been wrapped and carefully bundled into labelled cardboard boxes. We'd learned from past experience that this made the eventual resettlement less of a headache. Finding stuff where it should be beat hunting for it frantically amongst numerous cartons.Like the other relocations, we'd leased a large truck and we'd hauled our possessions into it without help. What we hadn't factored into our efforts were our eighteen-month old daughter, Carrie and our dog, Corey. While her parents perspired and strained, Carrie amused herself. I became aware of her choice of entertainment when she approached me dragging an open can of white paint. Of course, she had splashed wet paint all over her clothes and the dog, who was desperately trying to rub it off in the grass. Had I been a wee bit more aware of her unnatural silence, I'd have searched for her and found the telltale footprints tracking out of the garage. Our road trip had to be delayed for two quick baths. My husband tackled the de-smearing of Corey while I scrambled to bathe a child in an empty house. As fate permitted, I'd left a sliver of soap and an old ratty towel next to the kitchen sink. I made the most of this fortuitous find, and soon Carrie passed muster. Fresh clothing had been secured in a travel bag, but I'd not foreseen the need for a second jacket. No problem, she wore my sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. As I buckled my daughter into her car seat, I questioned the decision to change domiciles and home towns. Why were we doing this? It wouldn't be the first time I asked this. I drove the family car accompanied by a toddler and the cat, Kitty. My partner piloted the moving truck with Corey riding shotgun. My travelling companions soon voiced their displeasure with their captivity. Wails and screeches emanated from the rear of my sedan. To restore peace and soothe all our frazzled nerves, I pulled onto the shoulder of the highway. I all but tossed Kitty into the front passenger seat. Carrie required some cuddling free of her safety restraints and she insisted upon a bandage for her scratched nose. Just as I rebuckled our baby into her chair, the father pulled up behind us in a cloud of dust and squealing brakes. He'd lost sight of us in his rear view mirror and circled back to find us. Again, I wondered why we were uprooting ourselves. A few hours later, we returned to the road after a meal respite. I'd almost begun to believe we were in the clear and we'd reach our destination unscathed. Oh, naïve me! Unbelievably, I made another shuddering stop on the side of the road. This time I jumped into Mom-life-saving-mode. My super hearing had heard Carrie choking. Without stopping to think, I opened the back door of the car, unsnapped the harness, yanked my child from her chair, and performed the Heimlich manoeuver. Her wails were music to my ears and they continued unabated until she saw I'd already thrown away the offending Smarties. In a moment of deja vu, hubby screeched to a halt behind us. As we resumed our trek, that question niggled at me. Were we certifiable? Did we really need all this aggravation? Without any more incidents, we arrived at our new home, hundreds of miles from our previous abode. The next morning, an October 1st, we awoke to several inches of fresh snow. What had we done? How could it be winter so soon? Where was the shovel?( 617 words) PROMPT: Create a blog that deals with a moment(s)you've questioned yourself over any decision. |
| PROMPT: A caucus race has been suggested where everyone has to run in circles with no clear winner. Create a blog where you are in such a race with 10 other participants. Who are these fine folks? Why put them in this meaningless race? Oh, this will be so much fun! I am waving my arms in glee. There's always a sense of urgency to a foot race. I can see the red and yellow banners fluttering in a balmy breeze. The sky is a brilliant blue. The sun blazes in glory. The starting line glistens white. The starter raises his arm in the air and blasts an obnoxious airhorn. And they're off! The contestants are tasked with balancing an egg on a teaspoon as they strive to hurry around the track. Contestant #1: The philosopher studies his surroundings and his fellow racers. His mind shudders with questions. Why are we here? Why am I here? Does this day, this track, this race and these people exist? What does this race represent? Is this a classic struggle to belong? Contestant #2:The sprinter jumps up and down slapping his arms. He is prepared. His muscles are warm. He grips his spoon with steely determination. As his sports therapist taught him, he envisions the finish line. He hears the cheers. Be one with the egg and the spoon. Contestant #3:The mathematician strokes his silver beard and measures the track with his discerning eyes. Complex equations dance in his head. Acceleration equals change in velocity divided by change in time. This calculates the rate of change in velocity over time. The numbers never lie. Contestant #4: A six-year old child bounces and twirls at the starting line. As he takes off with his egg trembling on a shiny spoon, he stumbles. After he reties his laces, he breaks into a run. When his egg hits the dirt, he stops to retrieve it, but something intriguing catches his eye. Ants are milling about in the gravel and he feels compelled to rub his feet across their slow path. Then he gazes up at the sun, squinting. Time has stood still. Contestant #5:The politician straightens his red tie and runs his fingers through his hair; appearances matter. He makes a point of smiling and nodding at each of his constituents fellow athletes. Although he didn't recall there ever being a referendum or a committee being called, he's certain this race has a purpose. Had he voted for this situation? He made a mental note to have his assistant check into this. Contestant #6: The race car driver tugged off his gloves and tested the air. Good, there was a strong tail wind. He could use that when he drafted off the other runners. He planned to stick to the upper portion of the track until he entered the corners. He wouldn't bump anyone unless it became necessary. Contestant #7:The safety co-ordinator consulted his clipboard. Who had organized this fiasco? Where were everyone's safety vests and goggles? Were all the shoes non-slip and properly, securely fastened? Was this gravel tested for human usage? Did a team of EMS responders wait nearby? Would water breaks be scheduled? Contestant #8: The minister gazed solemnly at the sinners, the unsaved in his midst. With a show of reverence, he opened his well-worn bible to a favourite passage. He intoned a sonorous prayer for the endurance and the success of the competitors. He asked God to bless their legs and if it was his will would he cheer for their victory. Contestant #9:The mother of the six-year old sighed and swiped at her eyes. This was one more test of her sanity and her insatiable appetite for stress. Why could she never just say no? Laundry was piling up at home and someone had to pick up the other kids from school. She hollered at her son to get his finger out of his nose. A mother's work was never done. Contestant #10:The lone teenager shuffled his feet and checked for messages on his cell phone. He stifled a yawn. He avoided eye contact. He wondered if there'd be food after the race. I am the lucky eleventh contestant and I organized this momentous race simply because I could. I wished to witness a diverse crew of runners. Oh who am I kidding? I needed a good laugh! |
PROMPT: Spice up boring history. Pick any historical person and write a funny/ridiculous story about them. Napoleon Bonaparte Discovers Basketball The neighbourhood women stood in a semi-circle, arms crossed, tongues clicking, and heads shaking in unison. Madame Bonaparte had just finished bragging that her son, Napoleon learned a new skill, dribbling. This proved her to be delusional. Her odd little boy who strutted around the streets with his hand tucked into his jacket would now be seen drooling? Napoleon neither knew about this or cared. He reclined upon his bed with his brain aswirl with all sorts of plans and plots. He recognized that the boys he deigned to play with needed a leader and he intended to be that leader. Unbidden, his left thumb slipped into his mouth as he rose to his feet. Grunting, he pulled it out and shoved it into the brass buttons of his coat. Grabbing a ball from the floor, Napoleon trotted outside. His troops awaited his inspiration. He'd experimented with different sports in his efforts to rally and spark his followers. Wrestling had been a flop. How could he command respect pinned to the ground? Golf had seemed tedious and pointless. Too many balls were lost forever and the sticks became handy weapons. Polo had been promising until he grew to hate the assist up into the saddle and the disinterest of his horse. That beast had a mind of its own. He'd relinquished control and all decorum bouncing along clutching at the pommel. Basketball served his purpose. How appropriate that it took place upon a court. Great things happened in a court. Respect and admiration were generated in a court. One would most assuredly be noticed in a court. What better way to command attention than to run with a bouncing ball and dodge other wannabes? Bonaparte possessed a genetic advantage. Being vertically-challenged permitted him to elude contact or the reach of taller competitors. In his mind, he owned the superior skill to star at basketball. He saw himself as untouchable. As a wee tyrant in the making, Napoleon greatly overlooked his reach. The expectations of his self-grandeur lacked a solid footing in reality. In other words, he fell flat on his face. The first time this happened he'd forgotten to tie his shoe laces. The second mishap found him unable to navigate around the taller boys. He could not see the horizon much less the basket. Some of the more zealous 'ballers' discovered a manoeuver they dubbed checking. Gang like behaviour manifested in guarding. Desperate boys resorted to tripping and shoving. Bonaparte could not tolerate anarchy. Napoleon bestowed the title of referee upon his doting mother and he armed her with a whistle. He intended that she prevent any insult or injury to his person. In time, Napoleon realized that he was in over his head. His creation had a life of its own. The slam dunk he'd envisioned did not cater to his new and improved glorious version of the future. N.B., with the nickname he'd anointed himself with, was resourceful and tenacious, though. If he could not be a participant, he could be a coach/manager. The ball would still be in his court. With the best of strategies, some day he'd own franchises, and conquer the world one team at a time.(555 words) |
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Fabulous. Great imagination and so practical.
