Saturday Centus

Fallen off the wagon again, but I'm getting right back on! This week's prompt suggested this direction almost immediately.

“Our fingers entwined like ribbons of light,
the Galaxy’s power provides all our might!
So let those who do evil flee with their dread,
lest we smite them down and make ‘em all dead!”

He looked at her, expectantly. She returned his gaze, skeptically.

“I’m not reciting that every time we face a supervillain,” she said.

“Then YOU come up with a catchphrase," he grumbled.

“Don’t get pissy with me! You’re the one who wanted us to be superheroes! Look at this costume! You can see all my--”

“Fine! Change the costume, too!”

Yeah...it was a while before Bobby and Sue were ready to fight crime....

That's how the brain of a geek works, folks.

Saturday Centus (Sunday edition)

Here we go!

I looked at the ramshackle contraption as Pa put the finishing touches on it. He was ready to light the fuse.

“Oh my God, you really think this thing’s gonna fly?!”

“Simple physics, m’boy! The fuel burns, the exhaust shoots out the bottom, and the rocket goes up!”

“Your fuel is gasoline!”

“Burns nice! My Ma always told me, ‘Use the right fuel’.”

I shook my head. “My Grandma always told me that you’re an idiot.”

Pa laughed as he lit the fuse.

An hour later, the fire department has a whole new story to add to the rest. And Pa’s hair grew back, eventually.

Saturday Centus

I pretty straightforward prompt this week...let's see what we can tease out of it.

She crossed her arms. “Gimme a compliment, or I’m outta here.”

“OK...uhhh...OK, here. Without you around, I sleep like a baby.”

She grabbed her purse. “Nice try.”

“No, wait! Ever hear a baby sleep? They wake up crying every ten minutes, and they only sleep until they get held. That’s what I’m like. I can’t sleep unless I know you’re there to hold me.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. Then she put down her purse.

“OK, fine. You got me for one more night.”

“Should I turn down the sheets?”

“Let’s not push it.”

“Right....”

Saturday Centus (Lemon Paczki edition)

I know, I've missed a few more since my new-found commitment to, well, not missing a few. Sorry! Anyhoo, here's my take on this week's prompt.

By way of explanation, it helps for folks not from 'round here to know that these delights are a long-proud tradition in Buffalo on Mardi-gras, owing to this region's large Polish community.

An East-side Buffalo bakery, just before midnight....

“We’re closed up, Fred...oh no. Not again.”

“I think I got it this time, Joe.”

Fred huddled over an enormous pocket of fried and sugared dough, one foot in diameter, quivering as if alive. A hose ran from its side to the filling machine.

“It’ll never work, Fred!”

“No! Just a bit more filling...there...there! I’ve officially reached critical mass! I’ve DONE IT!”

Cracks formed in the dough....

“Fred! Duck!”

Too late.

KA-BOOM!!!

Joe wiped lemon filling from his eyes. “Ummm...get me a mop?”

“Igor obeys, Doctor Pastrystein,” Fred grumbled.

Mardi-gras in Buffalo.

Saturday Centus (Sunday edition)

I'm a day late with this week's prompt, not because I was busy or because I forgot, but because this prompt is so evocative to me, on a personal level, that I had to think about it for quite a while. The phrase that Jenny assigned is one that seems to fall right into place in the universe of my novel-in-waiting*, so much so that this bit might end up in a future sequel that's trundling about my brain.

Though you go to a place
where starlight fades,
I will find you.

Though you go to a place
where darkness reigns,
I will free you.

Though you go to a place
where all is old and all is cold,
I will save you.

Never, ever forget,
all the days you have,
the place you have in my heart,

No matter how long you journey,
no matter how far you go,
and that we will live the ages

Together:

Even if we are apart,
with me still here
and you gone far, far, far far beyond
the dark side of the stars.

* For Centusians who haven't dropped by in a bit because I've been lax, I have submitted the manuscript of my space opera novel to a publisher, and I have also queried a couple of agents and plan to query more and more and more until one takes me on or until all the agents in the world rise up, with one unified voice, and say, "Verily your writing doth sucketh, so bother us no more!" Anyway, there's a lot in my universe that I can with "the dark side of the stars".

Saturday Centus

A little New Year's cheer in this week's prompt. (Yes, I missed last week. Sorry. Too busy. Or maybe I wasn't -- how would you know, anyway?)

"I will not swear at other drivers. I will not swear at other drivers. I will not swear at other drivers. I will not--"

[SQUUUUEEEEEAAAAAKKKKCCCHHHH!]

"Hey! You want a resolution? I gotcher resolution right here, pal!"

OK...starting, now.

Be nice to the other drivers, folks!

Saturday Centus (depressing edition)

I apologize for the somber tone of my entry for this week, but I think that the dominant event of the day is pretty self-explanatory.

On the thirteenth day of Christmas,
my parents gave to me
thirteen lilies for my grave.

Sigh....

UPDATE: By the way, this post will serve as my only comment on this blog on the awful events in Connecticut. I've said a few things on Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter, but I won't be using this space to air any of my thoughts.

Saturday Centus (Tuesday Edition)

Hurg. I put this off because it's a Cute Picture Prompt, and those almost always screw me up. Anyway, here's the pic:

Yeesh. And we're supposed to write in first person from the viewpoint of that squirrel. OK then....

Mr. Spackler, sir? I know you don’t much like my general field rodent class of animal, but...I was thinking that just for today, we might call a truce? I mean, after all, it IS Christmas, sir, and this war between you and the gophers isn’t going well for you. No, I’m a squirrel, sir, but I’ve been authorized to speak for the...well, there’s no need to get rude. Hey, there’s certainly no need to reach for that rifle! Mr. Spackler! AHHH!!! RUN RUN RUN!!!

(If you haven't seen Caddyshack, you won't get the joke.)

Saturday Centus (I missed a week edition)

In the wild throes of bringing my NaNoWriMo project to the finish line (or at least the appointed mile marker, since the finish line of the story isn't even close yet), I filed last week's Centus prompt away in my head...and filed it so completely that I forgot about it. Oops. Time for redemption, plus a little guilt:

ME: Huh. It’s Saturday.

BRAIN: Ayup! Was it just last week that you forgot to do the Centus?

ME: Gotta bring that up?

BRAIN: You’re the lazy one, not me.

ME: But you ARE me!

BRAIN: Am not. I’m just along for the ride here.

ME: Oh whatever.

BRAIN: You know that look on your face right now? I finally understand the phrase ‘a deer in the headlights’!

ME: I see what you did there.

BRAIN: Really? I thought I was the brains of this outfit.

ME: We are SO screwed.

BRAIN: I wouldn’t say that we’re--Ooooh, look! Pie!

ME: Yum!!!

Yeah, I went all meta and stuff!

Saturday Centus

Culinarily inspired this week, I think!

"So this is a cook off for the inheritance? Is that what you're saying?"

Grandma was dead, and now her will stipulated that whoever won this, won everything. Including the responsibility of cooking Thanksgiving Dinner every year. For the whole family. And all relatives. And covering all expenses. Using Grandma’s recipes. Which were all out of bad magazines from the 1950s.

“Yes. You against your sister, Mary. Best dish prepared in one hour wins.”

“OK.”

I went into the kitchen and grabbed ingredients. Peanut butter, limburger cheese, sardines, ketchup, a jar of Vegemite.

What of it? Money'd be nice, but I don't wanna cook for these jerks every Thanksgiving.

(Errrr...I screwed up my link to this post from Jenny's blog. Sorry, folks!)

Saturday Centus (Tuesday edition)

Hey, it still counts. Jenny gives us a week to do each prompt.

Oh God, he thought. Oh God Oh God Oh God. Soon it’ll all be over. Just get through it. Just a couple more hours, then we’re done.

The pain was excruciating, but he knew that soon it would be over and he would have survived this horrible, horrible ordeal.

“You’re sure it’ll be over soon?”

“Yes, sweetie!”

He nodded. It was almost over. He was almost free of this agony, this torture.

Soon...there would be no more Twilight movies.

Apologies to fans...but really, Twilight is crap on toast!

Saturday Centus

A word prompt this week. Looking over my entry, I'm wondering why my brain is going this way...I haven't read or watched any horror in a while....

All arise! The first annual convention of the Hannibal Lecter Fan Club will come to order. Our first order of business is the singing of our anthem! All together now:

Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November:
One less day in those months
For us to maim and dismember!

Our second order of business is our inaugural dinner: liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti!

Saturday Centus

Another picture prompt this week:

“I guess we’re the lucky ones, huh?”

“Ayup. After what they did to poor Fred, all we’re doing is sitting on top of this fence.”

“Do you think that Fred felt it when they stuck that knife in his head?”

“I don’t wanna think about it.”

“I can’t STOP thinking about it!”

A few minutes later....

“Do you think he felt it when they started scooping out his--”

“What did I JUST SAY!!!”

“Sorry.”

A few minutes later....

“Do our seeds really taste like chicken?”

“I hate you.”

Saturday Centus (Sunday edition)

Most of yesterday was taken up by the various festivities and comings-and-goings related to going to see a friend of mine get married (Huzzah!), so I'm a day late with this week's prompt. This time it's a photo prompt:

I'm sorry, Mr. Sauron, but there's no eyedrop that will help you with that.

That's all I got, folks!

Saturday Centus

Another autumnal prompt this week.

The box in my hand was both heavier than I expected and lighter than it should have been, as I carried it across the field to that single maple tree, alone in that field, that had already dropped half its leaves. She'd always loved October, and she'd loved this tree. When I got there, I cried a while; then I poured out her ashes and walked away. The leaves crunched under my boots until they didn't.

A question: whose are the ashes, and who is scattering them?

Saturday Centus

With my somewhat relentless focus the last bunch of months on other writing matters, I've lost track of this delightful weekly bit of writing ephemera. I'm glad to see that Jenny Matlock is still keeping the fires burning, with an autumnal prompt for this week. Here is my entry:

Two trees stood together, watching the world. They'd sprouted together, grown from sapling to full maple together. When they were big enough, their leaves would brush against one another in the breeze. How they thrilled to each other's touch! And how they envied those humans who could touch each other at will.

Each year one tree said to the other, "How beautifully leaves grow old". They said a goodbye of red and orange and gold, and then they would lose each other's touch until spring.

One day their leaves won't grow at all...but not this year.

Saturday Centus

Wow, I haven't done one of these in what feels like forever. I've missed the little community over there! The last six weeks or so have been really busy, though, between work, Easter, a vacation, finishing a draft of a novel, and starting a new one. Busy, busy, busy. Only the A-to-Z Challenge kept me producing new material for most of last month. But now, here we are. Hopefully I can keep this up now! This week's prompt is pretty simple.

“Cream together butter and sugar. What’s that mean?”

“I dunno. Cream’s not even in the ingredients.”

“We don’t have cream...should we use milk?”

“Beats me. Whaddabout that other stuff? ‘Oleo’?”

“Nah. I went through that whole store and didn’t see any ‘Oleo’. I think they made it up, man.”

“Well, we can’t just leave out ingredients, dude!”

“This was a dumb idea. Let’s just go buy some Mallomars. Mallomars rule.”

“But they won’t be special cookies, dude.”

Silence....

“You think this Betty Crocker’s got a phone number we could call her at? ‘Cause I got some questions, man.”

“Me too, man.”

Did a scene like this ever take place in a Cheech and Chong movie?

Saturday Centus (Sunday edition)

Arrgghhh, I missed another one. Oh well. Naught to do but get back up on the horse...this week we're to have exactly 100 words. Looking at the other end of my "Humanity abandoning Earth" theme that shows up occasionally on these:

Larry cracked a beer as the light from the thrusters of the last ship to leave Earth faded in the sky. The other light, the one of the comet that was going to destroy everything, was getting brighter, but there was no way he was leavin’. Nosiree. He was 92 and he wasn’t like to see that spiffy new Mars they’d been buildin’ anyway, so he just sat back in his rocker, sipped his beer, and figured to enjoy the next nineteen days until the comet hit.

“Yessir,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m livin’ the dream, man.”

I always find something a bit fascinating about people who make the rational choice to accept the death they know is coming rather than keep going.

Saturday Centus

Well, I've screwed this weekly writing exercise of late...I did one two weeks ago, but I forgot to link the bloody thing on Jenny's site, so no Centusians are aware that it existed! And last week's, I just missed entirely, because I just couldn't think of a way to do that one without dwelling on death. So let's see if we can't do things right, this time! Instead of a word-based prompt, Jenny Matlock asks us to write a story in 25 words, using 5 sentences of 5 words each.

"Is that our new planet?"

"Yes, that's it. We're home."

"I pictured it more blue."

"Yeah...welcome to New Earth."

"May it outlive the old."

Saturday Centus (Sunday edition)

I sat on this week's prompt for over twenty-four hours after reading it, in hopes that something else would pop into my brain to do with it. Alas, nothing did, so I'm going with my first -- and fairly grim -- impulse.

The date had been set for months, but still, he wasn’t ready. He’d had his last meal, he heard (but not understood) the words of the priest and he’d talked with his lawyer and his sister. But still, before the last chair he’d ever sit it, Leonard Luther Allen’s knees gave out.

The chair dominated the small room, it was so big. But he barely saw the chair. There, in the air around it, were faces. Their faces. Staring. Judging. One laughing.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” they replied.

Leonard’s victims watched as the guards pushed him into the chair...and minutes later, judgment came.

This ties into an idea I've had knocking around my head for a supernatural thriller for quite a few years now. I haven't written it, because I'm not sure if it should be a novel or a screenplay.