This is creative writing exercise. Most of the work posted is unfinished, so comments and critiques are appreciated. My email is below in case you would rather send me your thoughts privately. Thanks for visiting, and I hope you enjoy!
This year for the holidays, what I'd most like to eat
12 turkey meatballs
11 cups of pasta
10 homemade cupcakes
9 slabs of bacon
8 squash casseroles
7 quarts of field peas
5 turnip greens!
4 pounds of potatoes
3 fruit pies
2 fried chickens
and several gallons of sweet tea!
Sometimes, I write something and all I can think about it is that I may have wasted my youth being a "good girl." Other times I think that my counselor would probably make some sort of deal about this.As for this poem, I think both of these things.
Writing, for me,
is like a period
how I will miss it when it's gone
Days, weeks, months, years
drift by casually and
I am dry, void of a spark
then a painful gush, and I can't stop
that's what it's like
writing, for me.
I am overwhelmed
with the opportunity
to create, to birth
something that was not here before.
Then, full stop, writer's block
is like a period.
It's like creative constipation
all my ideas backing up pressing for release
other times, I can stop and it won't bother me
not even a little tickle in my brain
I know this will pass,
I feel like a toy
an out of control spinning top
spewing words that seem
that do not feel like the come from me, it's
As with anything,
my storytelling has had
a beginning and it follows
there will be an end
if writing dies before me...
how I will miss it when it's gone.
At that point,
I hope that I will have made some
sort of difference...
helped someone laugh
or someone cry
I think there are some more cascades in my future. I really do not know how to evaluate my own work, so I never know if what I post is good or not. I do know what is fun to write and this was fun. (I also like to talk about periods, much to the chagrin of my husband and my brother, so that was another reason this was fun.)
The first sandwich I remember liking was banana and mayonnaise. I can remember being very young, maybe three, and wanting a banana and mayonnaise sandwich on white bread. I loved the combination of the sweet banana and the salty fat of the mayonnaise. As I write this I can even remember the smell...
As I grew older the banana and mayonnaise sandwiches stopped. I think one was left in our car during the summer in Montgomery, Alabama, which would equal a stinky car and the possible cause for me never eating another one again. I did, however, eat other sandwiches, and they all had mayonnaise.
I grew up in Mobile, Alabama, and when I started school, I went to the Julius T. Wright Preparatory School for girls. In third grade, I heard a story that changed my life, and sealed my current relationship with mayonnaise thirty-five years later.
I was eating lunch with my best friend, Rachel, when Stacy Corbin came over to our table (our class had three Stacy's that year). I really liked Stacy, but I had learned that eating lunch with her was like eating Sunday dinner with my cousins on my grandparents' outdoor picnic table. It was gross. She loved the see-food joke and she told really disgusting stories. She said, "Hey, y'all know where mayonnaise comes from?" and then proceeded to tell us this story. (If you love mayonnaise, you may want to skip this part, pick it up again at the asterisk.)
There once was this boy who loved mayonnaise. He loved it so much that he would eat it straight out the jar. He often got into trouble with his mom for eating all of the mayonnaise. One day, his mom brought home three jumbo jars of mayonnaise and warned him not to eat it out of the jars. That night, after everyone went to bed, the boy couldn't go to sleep because he kept thinking about that mayonnaise. He decided to sneak down and eat just a little bit. He ended up eating every bit of mayonnaise from all THREE jars. He was sleepy from eating all of the mayonnaise and went to bed.
The next morning he woke up and remembered eating all of the mayonnaise. He knew that he was going to he was going to be in so much trouble. He got ready for school and prepared himself for his mad mom. He walked into the kitchen and his breakfast was waiting for him. His mom looked happy and was making his lunch to take to school. She was using the mayonnaise from one of the jars she had bought the day before! When he got home from school he checked and all of the mayonnaise was in the jars.
That night he snuck back downstairs and ate all of the mayonnaise again. The next morning, it was all filled up. He snuck out of his room the next night and the same thing happened. He was really curious what was happening, so the last night, he snuck into the kitchen and ate every bit of that delicious mayonnaise. Then, instead of going right back to bed, he hid. A short while later he saw a woman walk into his kitchen. She was wearing a turban on her head. She went to the utensil drawer and got out the biggest spoon she could find and put the empty jars in front of her. Then she took off her turban. In the center of her head she had a huge oozing hole. She scooped the pus out of her head and filled up all three mayonnaise jars, and put them back.
I looked at my Vienna sausage and mayonnaise sandwich and gagged. All I could smell was mayonnaise and all I could picture was pus. I looked over at Rachel. She had also stopped eating and was a little white. She also looked pissed at Stacy. I "eeeewwwed" and Stacy left, laughing.
I have a rather vivid imagination and a very sensitive gag reflex. I have actually gagged twice while typing this. I don't eat mayonnaise on purpose. If it is mixed in something and the flavor or smell isn't prevalent, then it's okay, just don't tell me. Because I hate it. I hate the word. I want it banished from the face of the planet.
And that is the true story about why I hate mayonnaise.
My first attempt at a non-fiction essay. I feel like Erma Bombeck, if Erma Bombeck wrote gross stories about mayonnaise. I am completely open to critique on this one.
So the reddit No Sleep contest is over, and Peggy got either nine or ten votes, which put her pretty solidly in the middle of the pack. I think that's a rather respectable showing. Thanks for everyone who voted for me and for your continued support of the lasagna. I have another story gestating right now that I'll post in a couple of months. I have to brush up on parasites and neuropsychology, so if anyone knows any "for dummies" books that address these two topics, let me know,
Here you will find sixteen stories entered for the contest. If you are signed on to reddit you may even vote for your favorite one. I have one that I especially like that has moved down to the bottom third of the list since this morning. (I think not such a good sign.) The brilliant author of this story would probably appreciate more than my one vote. The contest starts today and lasts a week.
Wanted: Traveling Companion.
Must be witty, intelligent, brave,
and accepting of diverse cultures.
Ability to think quickly in tricky situations a plus.
Must be able to flee for life if necessary,
and withhold the necessity of blinking on command.
Looking for a long-term commitment, as I
am tired of goodbyes.
I am particularly fond of sassy women
and tin dogs.
Interested parties should send inquiry to
c/o the Blue Police Box outside your door.
The truth about my Emma is that:
she loved to roll her head in dead, rotten, stanky things
she loved to steal underwear and walk through a crowded room with it in her mouth.
she was short tempered.
she never got tired of playing fetch, and would bark at you if you didn't throw quickly enough.
she was smart.
she was funny.
she would apologize with a head bump when she was in trouble.
she loved me unconditionally.
I loved her unconditionally.
The truth about my Emma is that
she was a damn good dog.
I haven't been to 3WW in a while and I thought I'd check it out today. This week's words are Bitter, Manipulate, and Tight. I'm glad that I stopped by. I also see a bit of influence from a new blog I've been reading called No Fire. Do yourself a favor and check out the submissions to 3WW and the posts on No Fire.
I'd also like to remind you that today is Transgender Day of Remembrance. Let's take a moment to remember those who have died because of another person's fear or hate.
Submitted: 11/18/13 to minlovemisery for her color prompt today. I think this is one of my most favorite things that I've written, like, ever. It was originally written for NaPoWriMo in April. I haven't changed any of the wording, but, if you want, you can click Blue to see the original post.
Dorothy and Nora had been driving
the deserted countryside lost for hours. They had made a lovely picnic on the
shore, but had missed a turn somewhere on the way home. They had ridden in
silence for the last half hour when Dorothy spoke.
"I really have to use the
“Do you want me to pull over so
that you can go by the road? We haven’t seen anyone else for a while.”
“I can’t do it in the woods
beside the road!”
That was when Dorothy finally saw some
sign of human life. There were tire tracks off the side of the road. The tracks
lead up a hill and on top of the hill, she saw a house.
"Nora, turn right here."
Nora turned the car and they were jostled by the bumpy hill.
"Slow down Nora!"
"I thought you liked bumpy rides," Nora said, but she downshifted
anyway and eased the car over the hills and the holes of the yard up to the
Dorothy looked at the dark house and hoped for someone friendly and some sort of
facilities. Almost before Nora had stopped the car Dorothy had jumped out
and hurried to the door. She looked around as she went to see if she could get
a glimpse of an outhouse.
"You can stop dancing, I'm sure they will let you in." Nora joined
Dorothy at the door and was adjusting her hat. Dorothy knocked on the door and
it opened a bit. She stuck her head inside and choked on the smell of decay. It
reminded her of the summer she had lived above the butcher’s shop.
"Hello?" Nora called out from behind her. She pushed the door open
further and then wrapped her arm around Dorothy and guided her in.
anyone here? We're lost and my friend here needs to use your powder room."
There were no lights on inside the house, only the dim light that streamed in
from the windows. Nora crinkled her nose.
"It smells like a barrel of
rotten apples in here."
Dorothy knew that smell was not
rotten apples. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Past Nora, she saw the old
woman staring at them from the corner.
"Nora..." Dorothy nodded her head towards the old woman. Nora looked
over and saw her.
"Oh, I am sorry. I have forgotten my manners, but you see, we have been
driving a long time and we are lost and tired. My name is Nora, and this is my
friend Dorothy. I hope you don't mind, but the door was open..."
The old woman just stared at them. Her chin was almost touching her chest and
she was looking up at them. She clutched a dirty rag doll to her breast and her
mouth was moving slightly like she was muttering, but there was no noise.
"Nora, let's just go."
Dorothy no longer had to go to the bathroom,
and if the urge came back she would gladly pee on the side of the road in front
of God and everybody, but she suddenly needed to leave this house.
"Are you ill?" Nora let go of Dorothy and started to walk towards the
old woman. "Do you need some help?"
"Nora, I think she's okay like she is, please, I think we need to just
Nora reached out and touched the old woman's hand, "Can I..."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!" The old woman leaned up and screamed
in Nora's face. Nora stumbled back and her body twisted as she fell on a small
table breaking it. The old woman and ran out of the room laughing a high,
Dorothy ran over to Nora and tried to help her up. "Oh Nora, are you okay?
Please let's go now."
"Okay, I ...oh! Ouch!" Nora could not stand up. Glistening, dark
blood ran through her torn stocking and down her leg. Dorothy removed her
scarf and wiped at the blood. There was a long scrape down Nora's leg with a
large splinter of wood embedded in her calf.
"Nora, you're hurt and I can't stay here. I'm going to wrap this up
and help you to the car and then we are leaving. When we are away from
here, I will stop and get that wood out, but we are leaving first." As she
talked, Dorothy wrapped the wound with her scarf. Nora winced as she tied it
tight. A door opened near them.
A soft, frail light fell into the room. There was the old woman again,
watching, holding a candle. Behind her there was a wet smooshing sound and a
"This crazy old bird is going to kill us," Dorothy muttered as she
locked her gaze with the old woman. Then the old woman stepped to the side, and
Dorothy saw what was on the floor next to the door. Her brain could
not make sense of what she saw. It was man-shaped, but it was a mushy, bloody,
undulating mess. The darkness of the house seemed to swirl behind him. There
were what looked like pockets of meat on the floor next to him, attached by
"Oh, those as his insides. What happened to his skin? How..." Dorothy
peed. She never noticed. She cried and never noticed. Nora yelled at her, and
she never noticed. She just saw him as he began to make sense. She stood there
staring at this man as a long, bloody limb reached out to her. It was his hand.
A blood bubble formed where his mouth should be and then died.
At the sound of laughter, Dorothy looked over at the old woman. She was looking
down at the mess that had once been a man, shaking the doll at him, and
laughing. The laughter turned to screaming and then laughing again. The
swirling darkness seemed to move from him to her. It whirled around her
hand holding the doll. It crept up her arm. Screaming now, she shook her arm
and tried to move. The darkness wrapped around her greedily. Dorothy saw
her hold the doll close to her and then the old woman was turned inside out,
like a stocking. It sounded like someone slurping the last bits of an egg cream
from a glass.
She felt a sharp pain and her head rocked to the side.
"Get out of here!" Nora was standing on one leg yelling in her face. Dorothy wrapped her arm around Nora's side and started to move towards the door. She felt a chill around her ankles and she tried to run. The feeling was sticky like taffy and cold like ice. It pulsed up her body and she was suddenly face to face with Nora. They were bound tightly together by the sticky cold. They no longer looked like two separate people.
A sound echoed through the house, a wet, slurping sound. It did sound very much like the remnants of an egg cream resisting the suction of the straw. The slurping was wet and somewhat drowned out by the sounds of two women in pain. Then there was one soft, moist thump. It was a sound similar to dropping raw ground beef, reserved for this evening's supper, on the hard, cold floor. Finally, there was a muffled whimper and a muffled sob, then silence.
I have an earlier version of this story called Bubbles Popping in response to a prompt by The Mag. This story is a re-telling of the story The Dark from the radio drama, Lights Out. If you would like to listen to
the original, you can find a streaming source by clicking this link Lights Out: The Dark(This link will take you to
Time Radio Internet Archive. The episode I
am using is #19 on the play list.)
I updated the story because that first post was mostly a rough draft and because I wanted to post it to the subreddit Dark Tales. Click on Reddit Dark Tales to view the story and read other dark offerings.
The lasagna is popular with spammers today. I have had over 1000 hits from three sites that are all spammers. Maybe y'all are really loving my writing today, but I'm not going to reciprocate the visits. Thanks and have a nice day.
My children are young and asked
me the other day if they could go visit Grandma, Grampy and their friend Peggy.
It made me think of the night I met Peggy and all of her practical jokes, and I
thought I would share that story here.
My brother is a couple of years
younger than me. When I was eighteen, I went away to college and my brother and
my parents moved into an old Queen Anne style Victorian house. It was on
a busy downtown street in our midsize southern city. Most of the surrounding
buildings and houses were used by businesses. My family moved in September and
I wasn't able to come home until October. My first morning back, my brother,
Patrick, asked me,
"Has Mom told you about
"No. Who's Peggy?"
Peggy was the house ghost.
Patrick had been showering one night shortly after they had moved in. He was
leaning forward rinsing the shampoo out of his long hair and when he
straightened up, he saw a young girl. He said that she looked maybe nine years
old. She was standing outside of the clear shower door, staring at him. He
rinsed his face and she was gone. He said that she had blonde hair and light
skin and she had just looked at him.
Since then, she had taken to
playing tricks on him. She would set his alarm clock to go off at 3:33am, or
she would move the clock across the room. She would switch the clothes that he
had set out for school. Peggy liked to play her practical jokes mostly on my
brother, but she had played some on other people as well. She would sit in a
window in the attic. Patrick said that he and my parents were doing yard work
in the front yard one afternoon, when a lady who was walking down the sidewalk
stopped to talk to them. After the introductions, she had told them that she
thought they were doing a good job restoring the house. She also asked them
where their little girl was. When my parents said that I was away at college,
she had clarified that she meant the little girl, the one who sat in the
window. The lady had pointed to the attic window. (The reason that my brother
was doing yard work with my parents that day was as punishment for going into
the attic and leaving that window open.) Patrick stopped telling me the story
at this point to yell "I told you I didn't open that window!" to Mom
in the kitchen.
As my mom came into the room, I
"So, why did you name her
"We didn't," my mom
looked at me perplexed.
"Peggy is her name." My
brother said. He left the "duh" unsaid.
"Yeah, but how do you know
it's her name?"
Mom and Patrick just looked at
each other. I think I was the first person who had asked this question.
That Thanksgiving my Aunt
Jan and Uncle Randall came to visit along with their young daughter, Audrey.
Audrey was tall for a seven year old and had long, blonde hair. My mom put them
in my brother's room, which had a bed, but also had a futon for his friends
that often slept over. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving and all ate too
much while Mom and Patrick told Peggy stories. After supper, Patrick had to leave. He had
auditioned for a part in the Christmas play at church, and had gotten a role.
They were having a small planning meeting that night, and Patrick had promised
a woman, who was new to the church, and also in the play, a ride. Jan put
Audrey to bed soon after. We ate some turkey sandwiches and played a rowdy game
of Balderdash, and Patrick came home. He said that the meeting had gone well,
and that the new woman, Lisa, seemed lonely. Then we went to bed. The next
morning over breakfast, my aunt and uncle looked tired. Audrey said,
"Mama saw your ghost last
"Peggy?!" My mom and
brother asked in unison. We all laughed at that.
Scooping eggs on her breakfast
plate, my aunt said,
"Last night I woke up
because I heard a noise. I looked over at the window and thought that I saw Audrey
standing at it looking out. I called to her 'Audrey, Audrey honey, come here,'
but she wouldn't move. Randall woke up and I told him that I thought Audrey was
My uncle had looked over to the
futon and saw that Audrey was still sleeping there.
"Jan, Audrey is sleeping
over here on the futon."
"Well, she's also standing
When they looked back at the
window, Peggy was gone. Randall got Audrey off of the futon and they all
cuddled up in the bed for the rest of the night.
We all laughed and then the
doorbell rang. The room was instantly silent. We looked at each other and the
doorbell rang again. We started laughing again, and my dad went to answer the
door. He came back with a young woman who had a huge basket of muffins in her arms.
This was Lisa. Lisa was around 26 and had recently relocated to Alabama. Patrick
was right, she was lonely, and apparently already smitten with my 16 year old
brother. I didn't like her.
A couple of weeks later, I
finished up the semester and came home for the winter break. I noticed that my
family would often talk to Peggy, attributing odd noises to her. She had become a part of the family. Old
houses are often drafty and our house had cold pockets. Whenever I would walk
through one of these spots, I would look down at my feet and hold my hands in
front of my face while saying,
"I’m not ready to see you.
You'll scare the shit out of me. I don't want to see you."
I woke up a couple of times to my brother's alarm clock going off at 3:33 in the morning and muttering, "Damn
it, Peggy, give it a rest."
It never felt weird that we had a
ghost, or that we talked to her. It was comforting to have her as the reason
for the old house’s creaks. Plus, there was always an extra interesting story to
tell people when they saw the house for the first time.
What wasn’t fun was Lisa’s rapid
obsession with my little brother. I grew to hate her. She called my brother all
of the time. She "joked" about them getting married. She often
dropped by unannounced. She left love notes on his car. I think that she may
have done more that Patrick never told us, because he began having a hard time
sleeping. Then, during the Christmas play, she hung on my brother, nuzzling his
neck and even kissed him on the cheek, in the middle of the Angel’s monologue.
My parents had a meeting scheduled with the pastor after the New Year to talk
about Lisa. The kiss moved the meeting up to the day after Christmas. At the
meeting, Lisa was told to stop contacting my brother outside of church. From
what my parents said, she was not happy.
I went back to school and got
caught up in the new semester. I made weekly phone calls home and my mom said
that Peggy seemed to be playing fewer pranks on Patrick, but that Lisa was
still bothering him. He had stopped going out with his friends, and they would
all stay in and play video games or watch movies. He had also begun to have a
harder time concentrating, and he was still not sleeping. They were thinking
about filing a restraining order. Lisa had refused pastoral counseling and
church sponsored counseling and was in danger of being asked to leave. My
mom also said that they had started finding mutilated animals in the yard. They
thought it had been the feral cats in the neighborhood killing the birds and
squirrels until the bodies of the feral cats also showed up mutilated.
I came home for spring break. I
had papers to write, clothes to wash, and no money. Since the Christmas break,
I had been receiving weekly letters from Lisa at school.She wrote about how much she loved Patrick,
how she couldn’t wait to be a permanent part of our family. She wrote about how
she couldn’t understand why we were keeping them apart, and how she was going
to be with Patrick. I had saved every letter and had sent them to my parents. The
week before I came home, a restraining order against Lisa had gone into effect.
I had come home to a changed Patrick. He wasn’t so mellow anymore, and had
developed a quick temper. He had quit his part time job, stopped seeing his
girl, dropped out of track, and was writing some pretty bad poetry. He had lost
weight and had nightmares when he was able to sleep. My parents had put him
into counseling. There was so much that I hadn’t been told. Patrick was now
getting calls from the one or two friends she had managed to make who blamed
him for lying about her. One night, while I was doing the last of my laundry, I
heard a yell and a thump. I walked out of the laundry room to see Patrick on
the floor next to the back stairs, holding his leg. I yelled for my parents,
and tried to help. Patrick puked in my lap. My parents decided to take him to
the emergency room and I decided to take a shower.
I threw my puked-on clothes into
the washer and ran to the bathroom. My shower was short, and while I was
finishing up, I thought that I heard my parents come back into the house. I
wrapped my hair in a towel and me in my robe and walked out of the bathroom. I
shivered as I walked through the house.
"Mom? Dad? Patrick? Did
y'all forget something? I know you didn't get out of the ER that fast."
There was no one. The door was
closed and locked. Peggy, I thought. I got dressed in my pajamas and heard a
weird creak; Peggy was irritating me. The house was colder than ever, in
spite of the warm spring night.
"Peggy, cut it out. I am a
huge chicken. Patrick will be okay, and he will be home soon."
I started watching T.V. and
folding my clothes. The Jamie Lee Curtis classic seemed to freak me out more
than it should have, so I switched the channel to something tame. Every so
often, a board would creak, there would be a weird thump, and then she started
knocking on the door. I checked and no one was at the door. It happened
again, and again, and again. I got pissed. The last time, I got up and
headed to the front door.
"Damn it! Okay, fine,
Peggy, you win. Let’s see you! Scare the shit out of me, but since you can move
stuff, you're cleaning the mess." I expected to once again see nothing.
I turned the corner, and I
walked into a wall of cold air that stole my breath. There was Peggy, standing in front of the
door. She was about eight, and I could see through her. Except she didn't look
like she wanted to play a prank. She glared at me with green, glowing eyes. She
had deep anger lines in her face. Her mouth was open and I could see sharp,
pointed teeth. She held her hands out towards me, claw like, with nails too
long for a little girl. She was growling at me.
"Wha...?" It was
more a breath than a word. I couldn't move. I felt the tears roll down my
cheeks and the pee run down my leg. Then it felt like my head exploded, I was
conscious long enough to feel the worst nausea ever and then nothing.
I came to with paramedics
leaning over me and my mother standing behind them crying, and talking to
a police officer.
"She's not a nice
girl," I muttered.
When it was established that I
could answer questions, the police officer asked me,
"Ma’am, do you know where
"She was at the fucking
door. She's really must not like me, and she's not a nice ghost."
The police officer asked the
paramedics if I was really ready to answer questions.
My mom said, "Lisa, where is
My hair hurt and I was getting
very grumpy. "How the fuck should I know?"
"Ma’am, can you just tell me
"Peggy, Peggy happened. She
was making noises, and she was trying to scare me, and then I saw her, with the
eyes, and the claws, and the teeth, and then she did something mean to my
They took me to the hospital for
Later, I was told that my mom had
found me in front of the door in a puddle of urine with a pretty nasty bump on
the back of my head. There was also a note on the floor next to me, along with
The note was from Lisa. She had
written that her life was meaningless without Patrick, and she was going to
unite them forever in Heaven, and send anyone who got in her way to Hell.
I guess me being the only alive one at home was getting in Lisa's way, so she
whacked me on the back of the head.
The police were never able to
find her. The case has long since gone cold. Some think she was horrified by
what she did to me and left town, others think she went off and killed herself.
As for me, I think Lisa had
finally met Peggy, and I think whatever happened, it wasn't a joke.
This is my first submission to reddit No Sleep. No Sleep is a subreddit for "real" campfire stories. I haven't written a short story this long in a while! When I first envisioned a blog, I thought that it would be full of stories like these. I hope that you like it, and please be sure to check out the other stories on reddit. As always, my posts on the lasagna are always in progress, so I welcome comments and critiques.