Reflections are a humorous thing
A good one will make your ego sing
Give it a bad day
Your ego will pay
Bad reflection makes your ego sting
Reflections are a humorous thing
A good one will make your ego sing
Give it a bad day
Your ego will pay
Bad reflection makes your ego sting
Have you ever wondered what the writer in your life would love to have for Christmas? Or maybe you are a writer, and you’ve wondered if anyone out there understands these quirky Christmas wishes.
Well, wonder no more friend or family member of a writer. And as for you writer: you are not alone.
Below are three things a writer would love to get for Christmas.
on earth and quiet
There’s nothing we writers value more than our writing time, and want to maximize the time we’ve set aside as much as possible by keeping noisy distracting to a minimum. What do we get instead? The Last Jedi blaring from the next room, Christmas music coming from upstairs making you accidentally type “all I want for Christmas is you, babyyyy” for your character’s dialogue, and a bunch of kids throwing marshmallows at you and say that you’re in a snowball fight.
This is not the writing time we imagined.
What we want: TV off, radio off (unless its some soothing instrumental music that will get our creativity going), and for goodness sake, someone get those marshmallows off the floor. We should probably just wear a Grinch mask until our writing session is over.
An elf to do our editing for us
You’ve written down the initial idea, hashed out the first draft, read the first draft (and realized how much it sucked), and polished it up and turned it into a beautiful second draft. All that’s left to do is some editing. Easy right?
Wrong. We’ve been working on this story for so long, if we have to look at it again we are going to roast it over the fire (forget chestnuts). And it doesn’t help that the Christmas cookies in the kitchen keep calling.
What we want: For Santa to send us one of his elves fix all those pesky little problems in our manuscript, and while he’s at it, maybe he can bake us some more cookies.
With all the magic of Christmas, you would think that it would be easy to feel inspired to write. Instead our brains our groggy from too much food at all those Christmas parties, and our bodies still haven’t recovered from being shoved half-a-million times on Black Friday by crazed shoppers. Not to mention that somehow the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future keep showing up to haunt our main character, and periodically he will proclaim that he is better off dead than alive then tries to throw himself off a bridge before getting saved by a man claiming to be an angel.
Things are not going well for the story.
What we want: It doesn’t matter if it’s Gandalf, Harry Potter, or Micky Mouse…someone sprinkle some magic into our brains, clogged by holiday to-do lists and Christmas song lyrics. Give us some inspiration that will get us working on our story and keep us from counting the days until we get to open presents (or for some of us Grinches, clean up all the decorations cluttering our writing space).
And while they’re sprinkling their magic into our brains, they can should dump some on our story too. It’s gone through so much, but it just wants to live again. Let it live again…
Shy zombies don’t eat anybody
They don’t chase, or even ask politely
They’re really quite harmless, giggling and blushing
They won’t smash your head, leaving brains gushing
You don’t have to defeat them with any special powers
They won’t come after you, they’re wallflowers
They’re too timid to chase you
To get them to leave, just shout boo!
You’re brain is safe from these nervous zombies
You’d hear them coming with their knocking knees
The zombie apocalypse is nothing to fear
As long as it’s the shy zombies you have near
This silly little poem I wrote seemed like the perfect thing to share for Halloween. I wish you all lots of fun and lots of candy tomorrow. 🙂
Mark was glad his uncle only lived a quarter of a mile down the road. It was hard to steal a car when you didn’t have a car to get you there in the first place. Well, he wasn’t really stealing it, just borrowing it for the weekend. His uncle wouldn’t even know it was gone anyway. It was a one of those classic cars that people collect, but don’t drive.
Mark walked down the long dirt driveway, typical of small towns in the south, and hoped the coyotes he heard last night had moved on. He swallowed and reminded himself why he was here.
Shannon. The most gorgeous girl in his high school. She’d moved from Manhattan in the middle of the school year, and Mark instantly fell in love. Flawless skin, smooth dark hair, cherry red lipstick, and a fashion sense the bumpkins around her could only dream of: she was like a girl out of a TV show.
Unfortunately, Shannon didn’t seem to think as highly of him as he did of her. She pretty much ignored him for most of the school year. But all that changed when she told him she’d go out with anyone in this town who was romantic enough to take her on a surprise beach getaway for a weekend. Well, she hadn’t really told him. He was one of the many people that sat at Shannon’s lunch table to listen to her cute northern accent and fawning over her worldly knowledge, but he was the only one who actually planned a beach trip for the weekend.
He told her about it at school that morning, palms wet, insides quivering. When she said she’d go with him, it was all he could do not to jump up and down. He told her he’d pick her up tonight. The only problem was, even though he was 16, he didn’t have a car. His parents wanted him to save up and buy it himself.
So here he was, sneaking to the shed where his uncle kept the teal 1969 Lincoln Continental.
He was almost to the shed when a burst of music came from his pocked. He fumbled to turn it off as the dogs barked. It was Shannon. She was probably wondering why he wasn’t there to pick her up yet. I’m coming, baby, I promise. Mark hit the end call button to end the noise. Sorry.
Mark looked up from the phone to find a bulky shadow racing toward him. His panicked mind told him it was a coyote, but the shape was all wrong. And it was squawking.
It wasn’t until the thing was biting Mark’s leg with its beak that he realized it was a turkey. When did his uncle get a turkey?
Mark jumped into the shed and shut the door before the turkey followed. Mark rubbed his sore leg and told himself it would all be worth it once he had Shannon in the car beside him. He made a playlist of romantic oldies for them to listen to on his IPod, and with all the hours he’d have her alone in the car, he was sure he’d work up the courage to tell her how he felt.
He grabbed the key from its hiding place in the gas tank and cranked the car. Mission successful!
Mark imagined Shannon sitting next to him the whole way to her house. When he pulled into her driveway, he was surprised to see two girls standing beside Shannon on her porch. They both had suitcases in their hand.
“I can’t wait to feel the sand between my toes,” Shannon said, handing Mark her suitcase.
“Me too!” her friends squealed.
“Uh, Shannon,” Mark said, struggling with the large suitcase. “I thought it was just going to be me and you.”
“Of course not silly.” Shannon flounced to the car. “How boring would that be?” She settled herself in the back seat and her friends sat on either side of her.
Mark spent the drive listening to Katy Perry and staring at the empty passenger seat beside him.
Millie tried to ignore her churning stomach as she counted the people in front of her in the port-a-potty line. She was the eleventh person in line. Her stomach sent her a sharp pang as if telling her it wouldn’t be able to wait that long. Well you’re going to have to wait.
Her gut gave a low rumble as if reminding her that she’d been the one to feed it that hotdog from the food truck. How was I supposed to know I’d get food poisoning? What was in the thing anyway? Something similar to an atomic bomb by the way her stomach felt.
It gurgled again and the little girl in front of Millie turned around to stare at her. Millie smiled, but the girl turn around quickly as if looking at her for too long might give her a gurgling stomach too.
The person currently using the port-a-potty came out and Millie silently cheered as she became the tenth person in line. Hold on little stomach, we can do this. Her stomach didn’t seem convinced. It twisted and turned. Millie was sure she had a wriggling snake in her gut. She resisted the urge to double over and groan. How much pain could one bad hotdog cause?
She looked at the port-a-potty door hopefully, but no one came out. Come on. You should be done by now. Think of all the people writhing in pain behind you. Well, it was just Millie writhing in pain. The rest of the line seemed perfectly at easy. Their patient faces and easy stances annoyed Millie.
Why doesn’t someone knock on the door? They’ve been hogging the bathroom for long enough. Maybe they ate a hotdog.
Millie curled her toes and vowed never to eat from a food truck again. Her stomach gave a loud gurgle and the little girl whipped her head around so fast that her pigtails slapped the side of her head. After giving Millie a wide-eyed stare, she looked up at her mother.
“Why does that lady have a noisy stomach?” she asked. Her mother shushed her, and Millie wished she could melt into the grass. She tried to ease her embarrassment by reminding herself that she was the last in line. At least there would be no one waiting outside the door to hear the embarrassing noises that were sure to ensue the moment she got in the porta potty.
The line finally began to move again and Millie spent the rest of the wait clenching her butt cheeks so hard that she was sure she’d have buns of steel by the time this was over with.
She was almost giddy when it came time for the girl and her mom to go. Just one more person. We can do this stomach.
“I don’t want to go in,” the little girl said, lower lip jutting out.
“Are you sure you don’t want to at least try?” her mother asked. The girl shook her head.
Millie put a hand over her stomach and shifted from foot to foot. Just get in the dang port-a-potty!
“Alright, but I don’t want to hear that you have to go five minutes later.” The mother went in and left the girl to stare at Millie while she waited.
Just as Millie thought her stomach would explode from pain, the mother came out. Millie moved faster than she had to get the last big screen TV in a Black Friday sale.
What happened after she closed the door, she preferred to blot out of her memory.
Feeling like she’d been rescued from drowning, she unlocked the door, thinking again how lucky she was that no one was in line behind her.
The smile melted off her face as the door swung open. In front of her stood the very wide-eyed girl in pigtails.
Usually I don’t want that blue bird showing up in my post, but this time I have something to say to him; you stole my story!
I most certainly did not.
Don’t act innocent with me blue bird. You think I wouldn’t recognize my own story?
Alright, so maybe I used something you wrote as inspiration.
Inspiration nothing. That was a story I posted a year ago, word for word.
You were supposed to write your own story from the prompt pirates and lace. You came up with it.
About that…. See I had some difficulty coming up with a story. It’s a lot harder than it looks you know.
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. After the hard time you gave me about the story I wrote?!
I know, I know. That’s exactly why I panicked and used a story you wrote. I thought it would be so easy.
It’s a lot harder than you thought it was, wasn’t it?
Stop rubbing it in.
It’s a lot harder than writing those weird little poems isn’t it?
I wouldn’t say that. There is a certain skill that it takes to write a poem like mine.
*cough* Certain skill called crazy.
I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Let’s just say that this experience has made me realize something.
That I’m a genius and my writing is superb?
That you don’t need me anymore.
What? Did I really just hear what I think I heard?
Yes, girl human. I came here to help your blog and give your readers something exciting.
Oh, it’s been exciting alright. *rolls eyes*
But, while you don’t have my own skill and charming wit, you do have some small talent when it comes to writing.
Gee, thanks. Remind my to get teary eyed over your kind words. After I hit you with a frying pan.
Is that really the farewell I get?
What? You’re leaving? Really?
Yes, I’m leaving. I have other blogs to help you know. Don’t be so selfish.
Oh, I have no problem with sharing. I do pity the other blogs though.
Oh, please. Like you haven’t enjoyed our witty banter.
Arguing is more like it. But I must admit, it has been…interesting having you around.
Such sweet thanks for all my hard work. Remind me to get teary eyed later.
Well, this is it. Goodbye girl human. Maybe we’ll see each other again.
Goodbye blue bird. Maybe we won’t.
Hello? Are you really gone? Whew….finally! Looks like that pest isn’t going to be bothering me anymore. I hope….
Out of all the people bustling among the ships docked along Morchender’s waterfront, only one held Ramiel’s attention.
Captain Jambika stood at the bow of her ship, hair billowing out in a wild mass of black curls. Lace dripped from her cuffs and tumbled from her throat like foam cresting a wave.
So, the rumors were true. Jambika did like to sport her lace as well as transport it. Ramiel thought it must have been a tale, like those that always surrounded pirates. The last pirate she’d been under, Dead Eye, was said to have no eyes in his scull and use some mystical power to aim his pistol and strike his sword. In truth, he did have an empty eye socket—not even a fake eye in it or a patch over it—but it was his other eye that did the aiming, not some mystical power.
Ramiel stood at the bottom of the ship’s ramp and yelled up to one of the crew. “Permission to come aboard.”
He squinted at her. “If ye want to look at the lace, ye can wait ’til we bring it ashore.”
“Do I look like I’m interested in lace?” Ramiel didn’t try to keep the offence out of her voice. Jambika may parade around in the ship’s cargo, but Ramiel had more dignity than to go around looking as pompous and useless as a queen. She liked her clothing simple and useful. A cloak to keep rain off as well as cover her sword. Shirt long enough to cover the pistol at her side. And boots tall enough to conceal a dagger.
“What are ye interested in then?” asked the crew member.
He eyed Ramiel, probably trying to decide if she knew that she was asking to be part of a pirate crew, not a merchant ship.
“Let her aboard,” said a woman’s voice behind him. It was Jambika. Her voice wasn’t as soft as Rameil expected someone with that much lace to have, but it wasn’t as rough as Dead Eye’s. It wasn’t as rough as hers.
Ramiel strode up the ramp and onto the ship. She stopped before Jambika and stood straight and proud.
“I’m looking for honest work on the open sea. The longer we’re away from the shore, the better.” The words were code. They let Jambika know that Ramiel knew she was more than a merchant, and Ramiel most certainly did not care that the work wouldn’t be honest.
Jambika eyed her like she were a bit of expired fish. “You’re a bit shabby for honest work.”
Ramiel’s jaw tightened. “Honest work doesn’t require fancy dress.” She gave a pointed look at Jambika’s lace.
“Jealous?” One side of Jambika’s mouth curved upward.
Ramiel tightened her lips to keep from spitting. Jealous? Of this overdressed sod? She probably couldn’t use the sword hanging at her side.
“If you haven’t noticed,” Jambika said. “This ship requires a little more class than the normal,” she raised her brow, “honest workers.”
Ramiel felt she might explode. Was this frilly thing refusing to give her a chance because of her clothes? What kind of pirate cared how you were dressed?
“I don’t need a bunch of lace dripping off of me to look intimidating. I let my skills do the talking.” Ramiel put her hand over the sword beneath her cloak.
Jambika cocked her head. “Are you saying that I need to strike an imposing figure to make up for my lack of skill?”
“It’s not what I’m saying. It’s what all that lace is saying.”
“Perhaps I should let my sword do some ‘saying’ as well as my lace.” Jambika pulled a long, slender sword from the sheath at her side and Ramiel wasted no time in pulling out her own, less dazzling weapon.
“You first,” Ramiel said. Only a cowered would take advantage of one less skilled.
Jambika nodded her head at Ramiel. “Please, your move first.”
Ramiel only stood with her sword ready.
“I would not want the fight to be over too quickly,” Jambika said.
Heat spread through Ramiel. If Jambika wanted to be made a fool, so be it. Ramiel sprang forward, not bothering to be gentle with her first blow as she might have for someone less pompous.
Jambika didn’t stumble back in surprise as she imagined, but blocked her easily and stood waiting for Ramiel’s next strike.
Ramiel’s sword came at her again, and again Jambika blocked her. Ramiel swung over and over, but each time Jambika blocked her.
“Having trouble finding me under all my imposing lace?” Jambika asked, mouth quirked.
Ramiel’s only answer was a series of jabs and strikes that Jambika brushed aside smoothly.
Finally, Jambika made a jab back at Ramiel.
Ramiel had no problem blocking the blow and wondered if Jambika was only talented at defense. That would explain why she wanted her to make the first move. Perhaps her only skill was to keep attackers from wounding her while her crew did all the killing.
Ramiel switched tactics and stayed in a defensive position, waiting for Jambika to strike against her.
It was a mistake. Instead of finding a weak spot that would allow Ramiel to take advantage, she found herself so busy defending against the onslaught of blows raining down on her that she couldn’t make single offensive move.
She was being beaten by a lace-bedecked ninny!
Just as Ramiel thought it couldn’t get any worse, something hard press against the back of her calf. Her balance teetered and she fell backward over the object, smacking her head on the deck.
The world dimmed for a moment except the sparks of light that flitted over her vision.
A hand appeared among the little lights, a ring of lace surrounding it. Ramiel was not so dazed that she would stoop to taking Jambika’s hand. She ignored it and pushed herself up.
Jambika laughed and it annoyed Ramiel that she didn’t take offence at her offer of help being ignored. But then, it would be hard to take offence at someone you’d so soundly humiliated. Ramiel hardened her jaw and slid her sword into its sheath. She was about to leave the ship and the annoying grins of the watching crew, when Jambika said, “Not bad. I suppose I could use another honest worker aboard.”
Ramiel stood for a second. Was Jambika offering her a place on her ship?
“If you can stand to work under someone who strikes an imposing figure to compensate for their lack of skill,” Jambika continued.
The crew snickered.
Ramiel might have turned her down, just to save some of her injured pride, but if she had to spend another week on land in this smelly city, she’d join a merchant crew just to breathe in the sea again.
“I think I can put up with it,” Ramiel said.
“Good.” Jambika flicked her hand toward the crate at Ramiel’s feet, making the lace at her wrist swish. “Your first task is to take the cargo to shore.”
Ramiel scowled at the crate. It was the thing that had tripped her and left her sprawling like a ninny for the crew to see. There was a single word etched into the wooden lid, letting its content be known. Lace.
So it’s time for another post. I’m not really sure what to write about. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to come up with something since that blue bird has been around.
Never fear. I’m here to help.
Is that the kind of greeting you give to people trying to help you.
I thought you were gone.
Of course not. I wouldn’t leave a friend in need.
I’m not your friend. And I’m not in need.
On the contrary, you just said that you don’t know what to write about. So I will help you.
I don’t need help. The only reason I can’t think of anything to write is because you keep butting in and writing posts for me.
You never could write in the first place. I mean just look at that post you wrote for Valentine’s Day.
What?! There was nothing wrong with that.
Except for the fact that it was too long. People on the internet are looking for quick, short reads. Anything too long doesn’t hold their attention.
Unless you make it really interesting. Which I did.
Oh it was interesting. Somewhat.
*Grits teeth* Oh be as smug as you want. You’re opinion doesn’t mean much. I mean what do you know about these kinds of things. You’ve never even written a story before.
I could if I wanted to.
Ok, then. Do it.
Alright then, I will. I’ll use this next prompt and write a story with it instead of a poem.
Oh this ought to be interesting.
This little blue bird will take you to my Twitter page where it will continuously feed you random lines about writing, blogging, and pirates with lace.
Use pirates with lace as a prompt for a story, poem, or photograph and create a post on you blog.
There are 2 things to do after you put your post out there: