I quote: Exxon Mobil paid its departing CEO $48.5 million last year. He made $21.2 million cashing in stock options, and $3.1 million in dividends. His retirement package is worth $250 million.
My interpretation of this statistical information is that the United States of America has plenty of money for health care, universal insurance coverage, adequate social security funding, Medicare, Medicade, public education and energy saving manufacturing programs. But that money is in the hands of . . .
Leave a comment with your first 50 words about “my interpretation.”
Don’t forget the tickets. Don’t forget your coat. Don’t forget to be home by 6:30. The woman drives me crazy with her mothering. Does she think I can’t manage the simplest things by myself? I’m an adult, her flipping breadwinner, and capable of running a business all by myself. If she starts in on me again tonight, I swear I’m going to deck her. Lay her out flat and pray she never wakes up. Ram her nose into her brain and drop her instantly . . .
Leave a comment with your first 50 words about “don’t forget.”
The Bucking Burrito sat off highway 40 a ways on the outside of town. It was a flat-topped cinder block building, in need of paint and a lot fewer ruts in the parking lot. When I opened the door the aroma of chile, onions, and frying meat greeted me with an embrace. There were five vinyl-clad booths against one wall and several Formica topped square tables in the middle of the floor. Conversation stopped when I walked through the door. Must be the tailored suit and the panty hose, I thought, although a woman who is 6’1″ in flats is used to getting a few looks no matter what she’s wearing . . .
I shouldn’t have eaten seven brownies inside of an hour. What was I trying to prove? This child before me looks dappled. I stare in fascination. The colors on his skin are mesmerizing. He seems frozen in joy. Frozen joy. Ice cream. Yes, maybe if I go back inside they’ll have some ice cream. Or maybe some chocolate chips. Ice cream with chocolate chips. But what about . . .
Thought I’d try something new today and put up a photo as a writing prompt. Please use the photo to come up with an idea for the first 50 words of a piece of writing.
I stand at the crossroads, thinking that I’m a long way from home and don’t have much hope of getting back there anytime soon. Do I care? Do I want to go home? Maybe I should do something dramatic while I’m standing here. Sell my soul to the devil and take up guitar, or come to a decision about the direction I’m heading. I know that second option is the one I need to take, but I’m not sure I care enough about my direction to make a decision. . .
Feral cats, clustered like flies, sit outside the screen door, watching and sniffing. The younger ones meow impatiently from time to time. They’re drawn to my door by the aroma of the fish that I brought inside my beachfront cabin moments before. As soon as I took a knife to the first fish and began cleaning it, the cats appeared one by one. These cats know me, know that I will reward them with entrails and gooey guts from my catch if they wait patiently. I’ve lived on this beach two months now, long enough to become predictable…
Sometimes I think about the lollypops. There were dozens of lollypops arranged in a colorful display with the handles stuck into a hunk of styrofoam. They were presented to me by a student’s parent as a Christmas gift. They were bright and beautiful, but they were lollypops. I made the horrible mistake of thinking they were meant to be eaten, not admired as a Christmas decoration. I offered to share them with the students, thereby destroying the beautiful decoration and making the parent very unhappy. I think about that mistaken assumption that the lollypops were for eating more often than is probably mentally healthy, and I and wonder how many other stupid mistakes I’ve made that I didn’t even realize I made.
“Buddy Greco kissed me once,” she said. “I remember it like it was yesterday. I had such a crush on him. I’d been to a bunch of his shows when I lived back east. One time I was in the front row and he called me up on the stage.” She grinned and paused in her story, remembering. “He sang a song just for me, and then he gave me a kiss. I didn’t wash my face for a month!”
The best news for lovers of Buddy Greco is that he is now available on iTunes. So we . . .
Three old men in traditional Greek garb walked up the stone-lined street. Behind them a dazzling white church with a blue dome glittered in the sun.
Four tattooed young men spilled from a bar, drunk and rowdy even in the late morning quiet. They staggered down the street and stopped, swaying, in front of the old men. One of the drunks snatched the small, round black hat off the head of one of the older Greeks. . . .
I’m hopelessly old and out of date in terms of music. I love Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald. I still play their music regularly. Jeeze, I’m hopeless. Anything new I like has to somehow sound a little bit like the best in old-timey vocal female jazz. So I like young singers like Norah Jones, Molly Johnson, Bernadette Seacrest, Patrice Pike, Diane Schuur and Diane Reeves. These are women who know how to sing and don’t hide behind a lot of noise; they are out there with their voice and no other protection.
What I hate are vocalists you can’t even hear for all the crap beating in the background. Janet Jackson is a good example. Can she even sing? Who knows? You can’t hear a damn thing she says over the . . .