injaynesworld I have "Conversations With My Dog..."

I sit in a cozy living room chair, smooshed comfortably into the back cushion, book in hand, and a glass of iced tea at my side.  Draped across the back of the chair just behind my neck lies Dixie, my five-pounds-of-pure-adorableness Chihuahua, happily gnawing away on her beloved chew when suddenly I hear a plunk.  The chew has fallen to the floor.  I look at Dixie.

“I suppose you want me to pick that up for you?”  I say.

Her eyes meet mine.  Yes, please.

I lean over the arm of the chair where I can only reach (of course) the soggy, saliva-covered end of the disgusting thing, pick it up and place it back in front of her.  She turns away, disinterested now. 

“I thought you wanted it.”

No.

“You asked me to pick it up.”

No, I didn’t.  You made that up.

And she’s right.  I have conversations with my dog where I supply both sides of the dialogue.  I do this out loud.  Even when there are people around.   I silently thank Ronald Reagan for gutting California’s mental health system thus assuring my freedom to continue to do so unabated by those who would have me locked away.       

The voice I use for Dixie is small, like she is, and a few octaves above my own with a slight whisper quality to it.  I tell myself I am so connected to her that I know exactly what she is thinking at any given moment.  I tell myself that even if that’s not entirely true, I am, after all, a writer and am allowed a certain amount of creative leeway.  I tell myself there are many reasons why I’m single, and this is the least of it. 

Dixie, for her part, is happy to play along because as long as she is the focus of my undivided attention, she doesn’t much give a crap what I say. 

I don’t attempt this with my cat, Mason.  I have had cats for my entire life and, while they can be loving companions, I assure you they have only three messages for us:  “Feed me.”  “Pet me.”  “Go away.”   Sometimes “pet me” and “go away” are aligned precariously close and, if one is not quick to discern the mood shift, a blood-letting can occur.  Yours, not theirs.  Timing is everything.  

I gaze down at Dixie who is now curled up in her basket on the floor beside me.  She senses me looking at her, raises that sweet face and looks up at me with those big brown eyes.

“I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, too, Dixie.” 

injaynesworld it's "A Room With A View..."

Tiny, peach-colored roses give way to somber plaid give way to stripes of all colors as I peel away the layers, one life at a time, and plan for the one about to begin.

A bay window faces east.  Beside it, your grandmother’s rocking chair, hand-carved of sturdy pine where, together, you and I will greet the promise of each new day and discuss ideas great and small.

Another thin sheet of the past tears free and floats to the floor, leaving for us finally a blank canvas. 

Pink is too timid.  Blue, too lonely.  Yellow, a coward’s choice.  For you, my child, nothing but rainbows will do.

From the Studio 30-Plus prompt “… peel away the layers…”  Limit 150 words.

injaynesworld it's "Body Talk..."

So I went for my annual, semi-annual, once-every-decade-or-so physical exam.  Turns out I have the blood pressure of an 18-year-old and I’m kicking cholesterol’s ass.  Not bad for a broad with Medicare clearly in her sites.  

I attribute my good health in part to avoiding doctors, many who seem to take it as a personal failure if they can’t find something wrong with you.  You have to pretty much scrape me off the ground to get me to a doctor, which has been known to happen. 

But good genes deserve their due, as well.  Luck of the draw there.  So far, I’ve managed to give any serious illness the slip, despite my years of questionable food choices.  Coca-Cola by-the-case as a child and a steady intake of bologna sandwiches on Wonder Bread with potato chips smashed inside for crunchy goodness leave me marveling that I even made it to adulthood.  Say what you will about the chemical industry, I suspect all those preservatives in the food I ate back then did their job.  The number of Twinkies I consumed alone should guarantee a life span of 100 years.

Alas, my idea of nourishment as an adult wasn’t much better.  For years I ate a large bowl of heavily buttered and salted popcorn at least three times a week for dinner, followed by ice cream for dessert.  I would tell myself it was one of the few perks of being a grown-up. 

It’s only been the last decade or so that I’ve changed my ways.  I’d like to say that I have matured and now realize the importance of whole grains, fresh fruit, and green vegetables to a healthy body.  The truth is I discovered that “after a certain age” the body’s efficiency at burning off that package of double-chocolate chip cookies wanes like a flame in a windstorm.  The change is subtle at first.  Clothes shrink in the dryer all the time.  Then one day I could deny it no more:  The sharp hip bones that I could always count on to gouge my way through any shoe sale crowd at Nordstrom’s had vanished, along with an unobstructed view of my lady parts.  Sure, I still had a size four ass, but only because the fat had migrated to my stomach.  Oh, the betrayal!

Vanity more than health concerns have been the deciding factor in switching to a diet now (mostly) void of all foods the color of white.  Broccoli is my new bff.  Cheese and crackers have (mostly) morphed into cheese on crisp celery.  Chicken and fish (mostly) suffice for my protein needs.   Carrots and hummus (mostly) fill in nicely for chips and dip.  Sautéed has become the new fried.

I figure if I eat sensibly that still affords me the luxury of drinking all the wine I want.  This, of course, is not true, but it is what I tell myself, along with touting the grape’s antioxidant benefits probably far beyond the findings of science.  The same goes for dark chocolate. 

Because what’s the point of living to be 100 if you can’t have a little fun? 

injaynesworld here's "Just A Hint..."

Follow Hint Fiction on Facebook

The challenge:  Write a story (beginning, middle and end) that hints at a larger story, but is complete within itself, in 25 words or less.  The most famous piece of hint fiction was written by Hemingway:

            For sale:  Baby Shoes.  Never worn. 

Hint Fiction demands reader involvement.  “Why were the baby shoes never worn?” we’re left to contemplate.   It hints at much more, yet is complete in and of itself.  

Here is one from me:

                                  “News at Eleven”

          A shiny, new tricycle on the sidewalk, abandoned.

          A single, blue sneaker at the curb.

          From the house, a mother calls:  “Tommy, supper!”

Write your story on your own blog, then come back here and link up your post.  Be sure and visit everyone else’s offering and support your fellow writers with a comment.  If you don’t have a blog, you may leave your story in my comment section below.  Write and post as many as you want.   Link-up will be active through June 1st.  

Have fun!

 

Want to know more about hint fiction?   Visit Robert Swartwood's Hint Fiction website by clicking here.

injaynesworld it's a "Twitter Fail..."

This morning I opened my e-mail to be advised that I had a new Twitter follower.  Yay me!   Imagine my sad little face   :(   to find it was a septic tank emptying and waste disposal firm located in the U.K. that goes by the engaging name of “Euro Loo.” 

Dear Euro Loo…

While I know my writing isn’t for everyone, no one has ever before implied that it was crap, much less offered to dispose of it.   If you knew or cared anything about the written word, you’d know that those of us that produce such are sensitive, insecure souls to begin with and quite capable of trashing our own work without the offer of your services, thank you very much! 

On the other hand, I suppose it would be outright rude to not consider the possibility that your interest in following me is sincere.  

Still, if you don’t mind, let’s just keep this relationship between the two of us.    

I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t one of those discount cremation services – cash only – no credit cards accepted. 

And how is your day going?
 

  

injaynesworld it's "The Understudy..."

The single, satin ballet slipper tumbled down, down, down the side of the building, landing on the city sidewalk below with barely a sound.  There, among throngs of foot travelers oblivious to all but their digital devices, it was kicked aside several times before coming to rest at the soiled base of a traffic signal alight in red. 

From her precarious perch at the edge of the roof high above, the wind slicing through the thin, still-damp fabric clinging to her small frame, Carmen watched the rehearsal continue in the building across the street, just three stories below.  Slowly, she untied the ribbons of the other slipper and wondered what it would take for them to finally take notice of her. 

From the Studio30-Plus prompt, “precarious perch,”150-word limit.

injaynesworld "Teachers Never Liked Me..."

To be fair, even as a child, I was outspoken.  It was the time when “children should be seen and not heard” was the prevailing philosophy and I missed that memo.   Adults were to be respected, but in my household the adults often acted more like children than the children, so my perception on that accord was a bit skewed, as well.

As for teachers, I can sum up our relationship like this:  They were being paid to be there, and I was there by law.  Except for the nuns, of course.  It was their calling in life to transform us from sinners to, if not saints, at least something a cut above illiterate heathens, and with their stern manner and intimidating black robes, they were well-equipped to do so.   And yet, I’m certain I sent more than one of them to confession for harboring un-Christ-like thoughts.

I was a curious child who questioned everything.  Back then the distinction between faith and fact was lost on me.  

“Why is it as hard for a rich man to get into heaven as it is for a camel to go through the eye of a needle?  That sounds a bit unfair.  What if he’s a nice man?”  I would ask, and off to Mother Superior I would go.  Of course now, with income inequality being what it is in this country, I see that their teaching was positively prophetic.

The final straw in my religious education came when I stood on a tree stump on the playground one fine morning and declared myself to be the Virgin Mary.  It was generally agreed upon that I was better suited for public school.

And so it was that in the third grade I became the problem of ordinary public servants, underpaid men and women who, lacking the authority of God, counted heavily on children being taught certain rules of conduct at home.  Unfortunately for them, my education in that particular area was a bit lacking.  I never learned to take “no” for an answer which, while trying on the adults around me at the time, served the adult I would become very well as I made my way in the rejection-heavy business of writing for television. 

High school proved no better for the teachers in my path.  A smart kid who could have gotten all A’s and B’s had I cared to, the most often phrase seen on my report cards was “underachiever.”  I couldn’t help it.  I was bored. Then came sophomore English and Miss O’Toole.  Suddenly, my mind burst open like fireworks on the Fourth of July.  “Grapes of Wrath,” “To Kill a Mockingbird” – she even made Shakespeare come alive for me!   Freakin’ Shakespeare!   I loved Miss O’Toole and I got an “A” in her class.   So, in choosing my teachers for my junior year, naturally I requested her again.

Imagine my 16-year-old shock when my counselor told me that my beloved Miss O’Toole didn’t want me back in her class.  Apparently, I was disruptive.  WTF?   I was flummoxed.   I was hurt.   I was shamed.   Now you would think that the counselor would have brought us both in to discuss the situation and try to work things out – being that I got a fucking “A” and all.   But that did not happen.  There would be no meeting, no explanation.  I would instead be put into the class of another teacher, whose name I cannot even remember, where I would literally sleep through the entire semester, yet somehow still manage to squeak out a “D.”  It would be nearly a decade before I took an interest in learning again.  

I have often thought of Miss O’Toole over the years.  I’ve wondered if she ever saw my name on her television screen and thought, “I wonder… Nah.  Couldn’t be.”