Yelling at the TV

Today’s topic: Yelling at the TV. My first 50 words . . .

Nobody yells at their TV these days. Everyone is too busy writing a blog, telling their opinions to the entire world. Instead of tossing house slippers at the tube, we toss words into the cosmic consiousness at an amazing rate.

The previously unmet need for self-expression that the Internet fills sparked an economic boom along with creating a vast network of opinion pushers and closet writers . . .

Socks

Today’s topic: socks. My first 50 words . . .

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the defense attorney said, “the sock in question proves nothing. There is absolutely no evidence that the defendant ever touched the sock. When he was apprehended, he had both of his own socks on his feet.”

Jerry listened and wished he knew whether the sock really was his. He couldn’t remember anything about the night he was arrested. Sometimes he used a sock over his fist to protect himself while he broke out a window. But this time? This sock? . . .

Flying

Today’s topic: Flying. My first 50 words . . .

“Put your hand out of the car window,” I said. “Just cup it slightly so it’s curved like an plane wing and hold it in the wind.”

Marti rolled down the window and stuck her hand in the wind. I was going about 30 miles and hour down a residential street. Her thin nine-year-old arm wobbled up and down in the breeze.

“See how the wind pushes you hand up? That’s how the wind pushes a plane, too. And the faster you’re flying, the harder it pushes. . . .

Favor

Today’s topic: favor. My first 50 words . . .

As a favor,
Will you do this thing,
This tiny thing,
It’s not much.
Really.
Just this one tiny
Little
Thing.

Will you rub my
Aching feet?
They are oh so
Tired
And need a rub.

I know I ran
A marathon
In 100 degree heat.
You might think
I’m sweating and
Maybe even
Stinky.

But my feet are
tired and achy,
So, will you do
This
One
Little
Thing?

Garage Sales

Today’s topic: garage sales. My first 50 words . . .

I don’t stop at garage sales. I have too much junk already. So I don’t know why I stopped at this one. Okay. I do know. It was the gray haired woman. She stood in the driveway near a thick stand of bamboo that flanked the drive. Her hair was very short, as if it was just growing back in after chemotherapy. She threw her head back to drink from a can of Diet Pepsi and her body made this irresistable line against the green of the bamboo that forced me to hit the brakes. . . .

I dreamed

Today’s topic: I dreamed. My first 50 words . . .

I woke smiling, almost laughing. I felt good because I dreamed I was leaving him. I told him I was leaving and I plonked him over the head with a jumbo sized box of Kleenex. Whack, whack, whack.

I didn’t stop to analyze what the Kleenex signified to my unconscious mind. I was too happy to have had a dream, any dream, about him that wasn’t a nightmare, that didn’t wake me with a heart-pounding thud at 3 AM. . . .

Handsome

Todays topic: handsome. My first 50 words . . .

I stopped the grocery cart in mid-aisle. A tall man bent over the canned vegetables blocked the way completely with his cart and his large frame. I silently cursed his inconsiderate behavior while he slowly selected some green beans.

He straighted and glanced at me. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m blocking you.” He moved his cart, but my feet felt glued to the floor by the sight of his face. Handsome doesn’t describe it exactly, his nose was bent at an awkward angle, but he possessed a compelling . . .

Dog

Today’s topic: dog. My first 50 words:

Bingo, my perfect little doll-dress sized dog, is on the front step, but he looks real funny. Still. Odd. I get scared because I know something is wrong.

My dad walks closer and tells me not to go over there. He says, “Bingo’s been shot. There’s a note.” . . .

Giraffe

Today’s topic: giraffe. My First 50 Words:

I pick the giraffe named Melman as my character. I’m tense, joystick clutched tight, but determined that Melman-as-me will play a red hot game of putt putt golf. My eyes are fixed on the screen, unblinking, ready to play.

Gabby sprawls on the floor, relaxed. She moves the controls like they were part of her autonomic nervous system. The first putt is . . .

I remember . . .

I remember dancing to Sarah Vaughan’s Misty in a dark, sawdust-strewn bar in Estes Park. Every sound from the jukebox felt exquisite, perfect. Her voice and my body moved with the same heart, the same soul.

It was afternoon, outside the rain sprinked through the sunlight, but I was inside, in this dark cave with this beautiful sound moving my body. . .