4/05/2010
100-Word Challenge: Behavior
Stop by and look in the Comments for links to more 100-Word entries. You'll find the entrants on their best behavior.
Behavior Modification
They were arrested, and had their day in court. From high on his bench, the judge looked down at the three perps standing before him. Peering over his glasses at their pale faces, he boomed, “You know what you did was wrong, don’t you?”
“Yes, s-s-sir,” they answered, their voices trembling.
“Do you want to go to the pokey?”
“No, s-s-sir!”
“OK. I sentence you to one year’s probation. But here’s the deal. I’ll be talking to your parents and your teachers. If you do anything like this again, you’ll be back to see me. Next time, bring your toothbrush!!!”
Many years ago, just before the holidays, three children were arrested for trespassing and destruction of private property. They had broken the windows on cars in the junkyard. They were 10 years old. One of them was mine.
They went to court, and stood alone in front of an exceptionally high bench, three little criminals looking up at the judge with terrified eyes. The story above is exactly what happened.
Not one of them was ever arrested again.
4/04/2010
A Loss of (Global) Innocence
With airplanes, satellite television, the Internet, and the global sourcing of American goods and services, my world has shrunk. I remember when all I knew about a foreign culture was what they taught me in school or I heard on the nightly news. And I assume the same was true of the denizens living in a country on the other side of the globe.
Today, I have first-hand knowledge of much more. I can travel anywhere in cyberspace literally with my fingertips. There are TV shows coming at me from everywhere in the world. I can pick up the telephone, dial a local number for assistance of some sort, and speak to someone in a foreign country. The brochures that come with the products I buy are not only written in eight languages, they are actually written in India, China, Mexico, and who-knows-where-else.
In many ways, this is all a good thing. But as foreign became less "foreign," it lost a lot of its charm along the way. The following is a little piece of that charm, coming your way from 1962. Thanks to Roland Brown of Motorcycle Classics for publishing it.
*******
From a 1962 Honda Motor Cycle Owner’s Manual are the following riding suggestions, translated by Honda for the “American Motorcycle Rider.” - At the rise of the hand by Policeman, stop rapidly. Do not pass him by or otherwise disrespect him.
- When a passenger of the foot, hooves in tight, tootel the horn trumpet melodiously at first, if he still obstacles your passage, tootel him with vigor and express by word of mouth, warning Hi, Hi.
- Beware of the wandering horse that he shall not take fright as you pass him. Do not explode the exhaust box at him. Go soothingly by.
- Give big space to the festive dog that makes sport in roadway. Avoid entanglement of dog with wheel spokes.
- Go soothingly on the grease, mud, as there lurks the skid demon! Press the brake foot as you roll around the corners, and save the collapse and tie up.
4/03/2010
Friday Flash 55 - Mojo's Mysterious Misadventures
I've already posted my entry in G-man's Friday Flash 55, but how could I resist the challenge to join in Mojo's Mysterious Misadventures?
*********************************
Mojo's words:
The platform was empty except for the two of them. He felt himself helpless in the swirling currents of her smoky eyes.
"Careful, you could drown."
They had so very much in common it seemed he'd known her his entire life.
Oddly, he never felt the impact of the train, only the shove.
"Call me"
**********************************
And mine:
Shove. Shove!
"Are you ever going to get up?"
Shove.
"The lawn needs mowing. How many times do I have to ask you??? Get up!”
Shove!
He pulled the pillow over his head and tried to block out his wife’s shrill voice. If she would just leave him alone, drowning happily in those smoky eyes.
*********************************
Mojo's words:
The platform was empty except for the two of them. He felt himself helpless in the swirling currents of her smoky eyes.
"Careful, you could drown."
They had so very much in common it seemed he'd known her his entire life.
Oddly, he never felt the impact of the train, only the shove.
"Call me"
**********************************
And mine:
Shove. Shove!
"Are you ever going to get up?"
Shove.
"The lawn needs mowing. How many times do I have to ask you??? Get up!”
Shove!
He pulled the pillow over his head and tried to block out his wife’s shrill voice. If she would just leave him alone, drowning happily in those smoky eyes.
4/01/2010
Friday Flash 55 - Payback's a Bitch
This is my entry in this week’s Friday Flash 55, hosted by G-Man. The idea is to write any story you like in 55 words (no more, no fewer) then tell G-Man by leaving a comment on his Flash 55 post.
Payback's a Bitch
Like any proud mama, I was thrilled to watch my boy play ball. Wearing his jersey, I sat in the stands ready to jump up and cheer. He swung the bat (CRACK!). Before I could utter a sound, the ball hit me (THUNK!) square in my #2.
Shouldn’t have grounded him so often, I guess.
Payback's a Bitch
Like any proud mama, I was thrilled to watch my boy play ball. Wearing his jersey, I sat in the stands ready to jump up and cheer. He swung the bat (CRACK!). Before I could utter a sound, the ball hit me (THUNK!) square in my #2.
Shouldn’t have grounded him so often, I guess.
Beguiled by Night
The current challenge over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory is Beguiled by Night. Head over to read more entries, and you’ll be beguiled too.
Beguiled by Night
He’d never seen her during the day. Well, maybe that wasn’t so surprising. He left for work before first light in the morning, and usually didn’t get home until after six each night. But in any case, it wasn’t until he took Bumble out for their long evening walk that he saw her, sitting there alone in the dark on the bench in the little pocket park at the corner.
At first, he just nodded as he passed, and continued on his way. She seemed to be faced inward toward some private view he couldn’t see, and gave no sign of noticing him. He was reluctant to intrude.
One night, Bumble pulled her leash from his hand, and ran up to give her hand a tentative lick. She laughed, and she looked up as he approached.
“Hi. I hope Bumble didn’t scare you. She’s usually shy around strangers, but since we see you here often, I guess she’s decided you’re her friend.”
“I’m honored, Bumble,” she said, scratching the big dog behind the ears.
Now that they were friends, Bumble always stopped for a quick visit when she was there as they passed the bench. Sometimes, she even brought a treat, firmly cementing the friendship in Bumble’s mind.
Occasionally, he’d take a seat on the bench beside her and they’d talk a little. Her name was Jasmine, he learned, and she lived around the corner and down the block in the little apartment building he and Bumble often walked by on their nightly tour of the neighborhood. Her apartment had no outside space, so she thought of this park as her “yard.” She loved the soft night air, she told him, and sitting out here was her favorite refreshment. She much preferred it to being out in the bright light of day.
Both he and Bumble came to look forward to seeing her, and were both disappointed on the evenings she wasn’t there. There was just something so peaceful sitting on the bench with her, talking quietly as she petted Bumble’s head, which always seemed to find its way into her lap. They were beguiled.
One night, after they’d talked for longer than usual, she said that, as much as she enjoyed the company here in the park, she really had to head home.
“Bumble and I are going that way,” he said. “May we walk along with you?”
“Of course,” she answered, smiling. She rose, and reached beneath the bench for the white cane he’d never noticed there before. She put her arm out to find his.
“Shall we go?”
He’d never seen her during the day. Well, maybe that wasn’t so surprising. He left for work before first light in the morning, and usually didn’t get home until after six each night. But in any case, it wasn’t until he took Bumble out for their long evening walk that he saw her, sitting there alone in the dark on the bench in the little pocket park at the corner.
At first, he just nodded as he passed, and continued on his way. She seemed to be faced inward toward some private view he couldn’t see, and gave no sign of noticing him. He was reluctant to intrude.
One night, Bumble pulled her leash from his hand, and ran up to give her hand a tentative lick. She laughed, and she looked up as he approached.
“Hi. I hope Bumble didn’t scare you. She’s usually shy around strangers, but since we see you here often, I guess she’s decided you’re her friend.”
“I’m honored, Bumble,” she said, scratching the big dog behind the ears.
Now that they were friends, Bumble always stopped for a quick visit when she was there as they passed the bench. Sometimes, she even brought a treat, firmly cementing the friendship in Bumble’s mind.
Occasionally, he’d take a seat on the bench beside her and they’d talk a little. Her name was Jasmine, he learned, and she lived around the corner and down the block in the little apartment building he and Bumble often walked by on their nightly tour of the neighborhood. Her apartment had no outside space, so she thought of this park as her “yard.” She loved the soft night air, she told him, and sitting out here was her favorite refreshment. She much preferred it to being out in the bright light of day.
Both he and Bumble came to look forward to seeing her, and were both disappointed on the evenings she wasn’t there. There was just something so peaceful sitting on the bench with her, talking quietly as she petted Bumble’s head, which always seemed to find its way into her lap. They were beguiled.
One night, after they’d talked for longer than usual, she said that, as much as she enjoyed the company here in the park, she really had to head home.
“Bumble and I are going that way,” he said. “May we walk along with you?”
“Of course,” she answered, smiling. She rose, and reached beneath the bench for the white cane he’d never noticed there before. She put her arm out to find his.
“Shall we go?”
3/31/2010
Theme Thursday - Yellow
This my entry for this week's Theme Thursday on "yellow."
The Perfect Yellow Rose
The doorbell rang, and she went to open it. It was her birthday, so she wasn’t surprised to see the Roadway Express man standing on the stoop holding a package. She signed for it, and laid it on the hall table. She’d open it later. She was in no mood now. It had only been a few weeks since Mike’s memorial service, and it was hard to be enthusiastic about anything, even a birthday gift.
She and Mike had been inseparable, until Uncle Sam managed to separate them by sending him to Vietnam. Their mothers were college roommates, and had ended up living next door to each other. She and Mike had been friends their whole lives, almost since they were born, two months apart. They’d shared a playpen, a skate key, afternoons watching Howdy Doody, and the chicken pox . They’d ridden their bikes together, played hide and seek in the dusk, wrestled, and occasionally given each other a black eye. They’d seen each other though swimming lessons and driving lessons, boyfriends and girlfriends, all the angst and joys of growing up. He was her best friend.
On every birthday since they were about six years old, Mike had given her a goofy gift, the sillier and more bizarre, the better! Among other oddities, he'd given her a bullfrog, a Ch-Ch-Chia Pet and, her favorite, an alligator skull. This year’s birthday was a big one--she was turning 21--so the thought of commemorating it without some sort of gag gift from Mike was breaking her heart all over again.
That night, as she was leaving to meet her parents for a birthday dinner, she noticed the box sitting on the table by the door, and decided to open it. Inside the outer packaging, she found another long thin box. She unwrapped it and opened the tissue paper inside. Inside was a beautiful yellow rose, kept fresh by a little vial of water pressed onto its stem. She poked around in the tissue paper, but she couldn’t find a card.
She was running late, so she decided she’d look again later, and left to go to the restaurant.
“Here’s to the birthday girl!” Dad said, raising his wine glass. “We love you, Baby.”
And then she remembered. On her sixteenth birthday, an eager would-be boyfriend had overwhelmed her with two dozen red roses. When Mike had teased her about it unmercifully, she’d said to him, “That’s just so pretentious. I don’t even like red roses, and really? Two dozen? If a guy really loved me, he’d give me one perfect yellow rose.”
The Perfect Yellow Rose
The doorbell rang, and she went to open it. It was her birthday, so she wasn’t surprised to see the Roadway Express man standing on the stoop holding a package. She signed for it, and laid it on the hall table. She’d open it later. She was in no mood now. It had only been a few weeks since Mike’s memorial service, and it was hard to be enthusiastic about anything, even a birthday gift.
She and Mike had been inseparable, until Uncle Sam managed to separate them by sending him to Vietnam. Their mothers were college roommates, and had ended up living next door to each other. She and Mike had been friends their whole lives, almost since they were born, two months apart. They’d shared a playpen, a skate key, afternoons watching Howdy Doody, and the chicken pox . They’d ridden their bikes together, played hide and seek in the dusk, wrestled, and occasionally given each other a black eye. They’d seen each other though swimming lessons and driving lessons, boyfriends and girlfriends, all the angst and joys of growing up. He was her best friend.
On every birthday since they were about six years old, Mike had given her a goofy gift, the sillier and more bizarre, the better! Among other oddities, he'd given her a bullfrog, a Ch-Ch-Chia Pet and, her favorite, an alligator skull. This year’s birthday was a big one--she was turning 21--so the thought of commemorating it without some sort of gag gift from Mike was breaking her heart all over again.
That night, as she was leaving to meet her parents for a birthday dinner, she noticed the box sitting on the table by the door, and decided to open it. Inside the outer packaging, she found another long thin box. She unwrapped it and opened the tissue paper inside. Inside was a beautiful yellow rose, kept fresh by a little vial of water pressed onto its stem. She poked around in the tissue paper, but she couldn’t find a card.
She was running late, so she decided she’d look again later, and left to go to the restaurant.
“Here’s to the birthday girl!” Dad said, raising his wine glass. “We love you, Baby.”
And then she remembered. On her sixteenth birthday, an eager would-be boyfriend had overwhelmed her with two dozen red roses. When Mike had teased her about it unmercifully, she’d said to him, “That’s just so pretentious. I don’t even like red roses, and really? Two dozen? If a guy really loved me, he’d give me one perfect yellow rose.”
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