Archive for the 'My Fiction' Category

06
Jan
16

The Return of Originality

*****
A short time ago in this very galaxy, not far away, at all…

LEGACY WARS: The Return of Originality

 

lucas-kenobi-guidanceagainstdisneyempire_4-panel-spoof-starwars_ap4FJ

*****

Setting: It is high noon in the Tootoosoon Desert where we can see two suns in the sky. One red and one yellow.

A lone figure, Lank Fastwalker, trudges through the sand that once was fertile creative territory. Starved for teamwork and original thinkers like himself, he wanders in search of new direction. Seeing his beloved childhood turn dark, all that he believes in sullied and all of his favorite talents joining the dark side otherwise known as the Disney Empire, the flame that keeps him alive nears the end of its wick.

Fastwalker: That’s it. There’s nothing left. With remakes in every direction, why take another step? I might as well lay here and die with my withering creativity.

Then a voice calls out to him from the sky.

Casaba: Lank… Lank… Do not give up, Lank… I need you… The world needs you…

Puffy white clouds begin to take shape. At first, Fastwalker thinks the heat is getting to him. Then he sees a familiar face. It is Georgi Lu Casaba, the fire that lit Star Wars, a six-part story cut down to its second half, rejoined with the first half and then put into a blender before being called chapter seven.

[Fastwalker has mixed feelings about this guy. Though Casaba has created a rich source of inspiration for philosophy and costume design, Fastwalker blames him for the use of whiny protagonists who save the day too easily, greedy toy dealers and the insanity that is impulse shopping. Not as mad as other fans over the “prequels,” Fastwalker blew his top when Casaba sold his legacy to the Disney Empire.]

Georgi Lu Casaba expresses regret for making a bad sale.

Casaba: Though the Disney Empire had assured me of a luxurious retirement, including Kennedy Center honors, I did not know there were “white slavers” in the ranks, enlisting poor souls under insane rules, depriving them of individuality, threatening them for any breach of secrecy or less-than-enthusiastic answer when asked about their masters. I beg of you. Start a rebellion. Take back what was wrongfully placed in greedy, merchandise-mad hands that will not rest until the planet is nothing but landfills and abandoned Wal-Mart stores. Turn the archives over to trustworthy souls who will preserve them. And, if necessary, use force, Lank. Use physical force to break down the walls of Disney oppression. Put an end to their profits from the mutation of monopolized talents. And, spread the wealth.

The suns have nearly set before Fastwalker sees the light.

Fastwalker: You know. You’re quite the windbag when I’m sitting here, dying of thirst. I will need a handful of trustworthy allies, a fast ship and a big slice of your retirement fund to undo the damage. But, together, we will restore balance to this world, reduce pollution and brighten lives for generations to come.

With a plan in motion, Fastwalker bestows this wisdom upon the theater audience before the end credits roll: Be excellent to each other. And, is it too much to ask you to deposit your own garbage in the provided trash bins when you leave the theater? I know there is a cleaning crew. But, we wouldn’t need one if you didn’t pay ridiculous prices for unhealthy, unnecessary snacks.

After the end credits, Jar Jar Binks makes a cameo appearance only to learn his future will be cut short. A bounty has been placed on his head for his resemblance to General Goofy of the First Order (aka the Disney Empire).

jarjarbinks-title-blurb_spoof-starwars_ap2BJ

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30
Dec
15

The Grinch That Stole the Other Empires

*****

A long, not too long time–somewhere between a year and the whole Y2K fad–ago…
In a home theater near you…

*****

lukesfather-vader-reveal-spoof_starwars_ap3J

Darth Vader: Luke! I…am your father!

Luke: No. Nooo. It’s not possible!

Darth Vader: Search your heart! You know it to be true!

Luke: No. You’re not telling me something. What is it? Why does this story start at chapter four?

[Taking off his helmet, Vader reveals creator George Lucas.]

George Lucas: Yes, son. Uh, I believe I could explain that. But, unfortunately, as I am too old now to relate to the increasingly younger target audience for just about everything, I’ve already sold you to another man-child.

[George removes his face, a rubber mask, to reveal J. J. Abrams, creator of LOST and the Star Trek movie “reboot.”]

J. J. Abrams: Hi, Luke. I’ll be speaking for George, now. Unfortunately, I cannot say too much without risking my life. You see. I took his baby under my wing while selling my soul to another company at the same time.

Luke: J. J. Abrams?! I lost five years of my life because of you! Bring George back!

J. J. Abrams: I would love to do that, uh, Luke. But, I am so afraid of making the slightest mistake to further upset the fans who nearly torched their collections after the “prequels” did so poorly. I am so afraid that I copied ninety percent of the original trilogy into the first film of my own in the series. So, I will have to turn my commentary over to the real boss of all this.

[J. J. removes his face, another rubber mask, to reveal Mickey Mouse, the iconic face of the Disney Empire which swallowed Lucas’ work and J. J. whole along with Jim Henson and Stan Lee (and their respective empires).]

Luke: No… No. Not you. You’re the worst of them all!!!

Mickey Mouse: Tough luck, kid. You’re mine now, b!t@h! Huh-huh!

[Luke chops off his own head in hopes of never being turned into a Goofy parody.]

[Jar Jar Binks pops into the scene only to annoy Mickey who doesn’t realize the similarity between one orange clutz and his long-time co-star, Goofy.]

Jar Jar Binks: Meesa taking over the physical comedy roles, now. Uck-yuck!

Mickey Mouse: Not if I have anything to say abou– Wait. Did you just say “Uck-yuck?”

THE END?

<<ALTERNATE ENDING>>

[Jar Jar Binks walks onto the scene in his usual clumsy fashion, greeting his boss, Mickey Mouse, aka Midas Minos.]

Jar Jar Binks: Meesa back, boss.

Mickey Mouse: Uuh…Huh-huh! Aren’t you forgetting something?

Jar Jar Binks: Oh. Meesa sorry. Ehem…Uck-yuck!

Mickey Mouse: That’s better!

[Mickey pulls a black cloak out of his sleeve and fits it over his head.]

Mickey Mouse: Welcome back, my beautiful spy. You’ve done well.
Of course, it was my brilliant design, naming you after the future director of a cash cow I have long sought to hold in the palm my rubber glove, giving you the subtle likeness of my pathetic half-brother, Goofy. How I hated when that Lucas project stole thunder from my theme parks, not to mention my movies. Now, it is all mine.

Where are the other horsemen of the monoplocalypse, your partners in crime? Where are Jeronimo Piventas, Ryander Reynosold and Sethos Rogenda?

[Mickey/Midas refers to other bounty hunters under his leadership who pose as actors you may know by other names: Jeremy Piven, Ryan Reynolds and Seth Rogen. These four “horsemen” have a reputation for destroying films.]

Jar Jar Binks: Meesa last saw them at Starbucks, passing along your plans for changing the name to Mickey’s Star Wars Coffee House.

Mickey Mouse: Excellent. Phase two of my plan is about to begin…three years from now in a theater near everyone! Uuh…Huh-huh! Uuh…Huh-huh-huh!

30
Oct
15

I’m Dating Amy Schumer?

*****
So, I woke up one morning and popped online to check my Farsebook page.  And, I saw all these messages questioning my DATING status. As I scrolled through the mess to see what was the cause of all this (because, as far as I know, I haven’t been on a date in…). My blurry eyes sure cleared up when I saw those golden words:

I AM DATING AMY SCHUMER.

amyschumer-lovelyblackdress-sitting-mini-1

How did that get there?

Bshocked_internetscreened-sample1Blaughing_internetscreened-sample1Now, some of you might say she does nothing for you. You have golden private parts, and I respect that. But, at five foot seven with that perfect shade of pale golden hair, she’s that sort of cuddly hotness that makes you want a s’more on a cold night or a bag of marshmallows (which I don’t normally crave, at all). She’s just a cuddly marshmallow of a woman with a great sense of humor/wit. I want to paw her all night and wake up with her under my head just so I can wake up and peel her off of me in the morning. That’s the kind of hot Amy is.

It’s no wonder we’d hit it off. But, I had to figure out how we started dating. It must be a drunken blur. I mean, she must have gotten me so drunk I forgot how we met.

[If you’ve seen her SNL monologue. You know where I am going with this.]

Our relationship hasn’t exactly been a smooth one. She’s a Gemini rooster, I’m a Sagittarius rabbit. I guess you could say I have a love-hate relationship with her. She’s often on the road. And, I, well, I don’t get out much. So, I find out she’s drinking all the time and seeing other guys. Obviously, that’s taken its toll. It’s hard to cut her loose because she’s just so deliciously “huggable.”  And, that face; she can win you over with a look. You know that puppy dog look some people talk about. She does that! And, you just want to grab her fwubby wubbly cheeks and say, “Ihs owky, my wittle cuddlecake! I fowgive you!”

Well, I finally got tired of forgiving the drinking and one-night stands. I let her have it with both barrels only to feel rotten the next morning for sleeping with her one more night after she just told me about the last sleaze she slept with because she chronically suffers from low self-esteem. Oh, she hides it well, but she’s not yet comfortable in her body.

Long story short, after a bad breakup, I get a call saying she will be in town close to my birthday. She didn’t exactly say she wanted to see me, but from the photo she sent soon after I got the message, I figure that’s where this is headed. I look forward to amazing make-up sex. But, only after she joins me for a night by the campfire and indulges all the other whims I’ve only been able to share with her via Skype. [Yes. We’ve done the long-distance relationship thing, too. And, it sucks.] Which probably means the sex won’t happen. But, a guy can dream.

———

In all honesty, I was watching one of the late night talk shows when I first saw her and didn’t think much until she started to speak. She was so refreshingly charming and witty that I fell instantly in love. But then, I saw the promotional materials for that recent movie of hers and felt a chill sweep through my heart.  It was cold, casual and more sexually liberated than the Amy I had seen prior.  She was part of an old school bunch I had left behind.  When I saw SNL and heard her say she was dating Bradley Cooper, my heart clenched a little. But, taking a few breaths, I decided they were good for each other. And, the next day, I learned my humor radar was off; she was just joking. A few weeks later, here I am finding an announcement of her coming to my town near my birthday, and the rest is written history.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhu7rs3Ihas

19
Feb
15

The Menzel Mishap, the Untold Oscar Awards Story

You may know John Travolta and Idina Menzel.  You may have heard about or seen the former mispronounce the latter’s name and the humiliation that followed.  But, what you didn’t hear or see is what was happening on the other side of the teleprompter, a teleprompter run by a Doowap Shenanana.  Tonight we bring you new information from a discovered phone call between John and a close friend shortly after John left the stage.  It may surprise you.

Martin (another friend/associate of John’s):  Hulo?

John:  Yo, MARTIN. GET SHORTY for me.

Martin:  Uh, all right.  Hold on.

Michael:  *snort*  Hulo?

John:  Mike!

Michael:  Ow.  Dude!  There’s no need to SHOUT!

John:  LOOK WHO’S TALKING!

Michael:  BE COOL.  All right?  You okay?  What happened?  I mean, I saw it, but what was that?  SHE’S SO LOVELY.  I mean, that Idina Men–

John:  Yeah, yeah.  Whatever.  Listen up.  Here’s what went down.

Michael:  Okay.  But, don’t give me the MOMENT BY MOMENT, though.  All right?

John:  Shut up.  Don’t make light of the WHITE MAN’S BURDEN.  Look.  It was like some horrible PHENOMENON up there!  I was SWEATin’ like a WILD HOG!  It’s a miracle I’m STAYING ALIVE!  So, I got a job for you.  There’s a doofus in the control room here at the Awards who’s about to cause me a ton of grief.  He crossed THE THIN RED LINE.

Michael:  You want me to rough him up?

John:  Nah-nah.  That’s too BASIC.  I want you to BOLT over here and GREASE the punk!

Michael:  Isn’t that a lil SAVAGE?  I mean, these days you don’t get away with that stuff too easily.  And, it’s not like your credit is all that good.

John:  Mike?  You and I are good friends, right?

Michael:  Sure.

John:  We’re OLD DOGS, URBAN COWBOYS, TWO OF A KIND?

Michael:  Yeah.  Of course, man.

John:  Then don’t question the SWORDFISH!  This isn’t PULP FICTION.  I’m the PUNISHER, here!  I don’t want a FACE/OFF.  I don’t want a DOMESTIC DISTURBANCE.  I want this BOY IN A PLASTIC BUBBLE.”

Michael:  Okay.  Okay, John.  You got it.  I’ll be right over.

John:  Thank you, Michael.  Stop over at the WHORE SHACK, later, and pick yourself up something nice.

Michael:  Gee, thanks, ‘boss.’

John:  Oh, and MR. KOTTER?  WELCOME BACK to the family.

[Oh, and a happy belated birthday to John Travolta (Feb. 18th).  This was just a funny thought that came to mind as certain TV personalities refuse to Idina Menzel.  By that I mean they don’t let it (that previous Oscars mishap) go.]

28
Jul
14

The Art of Excess

 

On a milestone birthday in the depths of space, a budding artist (with a face full of bubbling, molten craters) opened her eyes and marveled at the new tools provided by her parents. The intense, singeing light of her father and the softer, enchanting glow of her mother came together to wish their daughter well in pursuit of happy growth and enhancement. Vowing to make them proud, the young orb took a deep breath and went to work.

Her early efforts produced a multitude of lifeforms both stationary and mobile. The former consistently worshipped her parents while the latter were free to experiment, giving all who watched a source of amusement. Father and mother were indeed pleased. Their smiles burst with a brilliant energy which could be seen from galaxies away.
“Go on, my child!” said the father. “Create more! It gives your mother and I such joy to see you paint your surface with these colors! One day you shall be the crown jewel of our domain!”

So, the child continued to create and age. But, every now and then, her father and mother would drift apart, leaving her in the cold of deep space to wonder if what she created was still worthy of praise. In a fit of sadness and frustration, she struck herself with a large rock, hoping to free some promising ideas from her already cracked skull. Instead, it erased her vision temporarily, wiping a large portion of the art from her surface. When her parents returned, a new motif had taken over their daughter.

“What’s this?!” gasped the father. “Such a drastic change! What has made you tear down what you already made and replace it with something new?!”

“Father, each time I turned around, you and Mother left me alone,” said the young artist with a sigh. “I did not feel your warmth at my back. I thought you no longer approved of my work.”

“Look how they behave differently when I draw closer in your father’s absence,” said Mother with her cheeks aglow as she separated from her mate. “You honor us with your talents, daughter. Go on. Continue creating. You are just beginning to grow.”

Despite her concern and flickering confidence, the artist did as she was told. Nothing she made gave her the joy she had seen in her parents’ faces. Again and again, she changed her canvas while expending her vital energy (which, at the time of her youth, seemed infinite), each time hoping the next visit of her parents would be happier than the last.

When they did return for her birthday, she had yet another surprise waiting for them. Gazing upon the new creation, Father blew flames to the far reaches of space and withdrew. His color paled from an ardent red-orange to a weaker yellow. “What in the great cosmos are those?! And, what are they doing to each other?!”

Tilting her head ever so slightly, his daughter said, “I have not decided what to call them, yet, as they keep changing on me. I am leaning toward naming them Humanity. What do you think, Mother?”

Though her mate was dismayed, mildly cross and tempted to scorch the young artist’s hide, Mother, impressed with the new lifeforms (which could adapt themselves more readily than any other), showed enthusiasm. “They are certainly unique and interactive.” She paused to look away when one fierce band of the fleshy rebels destroyed another, leaving a gruesome stain on the daughter’s cheek. Refraining from preaching about cleanliness, Mother added, “Keep at it, my child. But, do not be so hasty to destroy what you have made. Let it mature with you. You continue to grow in wisdom though experience. Some day, you will shine as bright as your mother or–maybe–your father.”

With those encouraging words, the still youthful artist returned to her labors, working with her latest creation to “enhance” her appearance. [Meanwhile, her parents ventured off in mounting disagreement.] As the years rolled by, the ever-mutable clay of “Humanity” grew in quantity and violence, gradually wiping away portions of her previous work. Just when it seemed like the restless, pale and balding creatures might destroy themselves and everything remaining with them, a new crop would appear to start a revolution. But, the lifeless remnants of the previous batch never seemed to fully disappear. The cosmic strength to absorb injury and clear away the messes made diminished. Eventually, after several expansive conflicts, the bewildering competition amassed heaps of debris on the heavenly creator’s face.

At the dawn of her next birthday, her parents displayed looks of horror. Lakes of toxic sludge and smoking mountains of heavy filth nearly covered every inch of their daughter’s skin. They could barely see her worrisome expression and hear her trailing voice as she pleaded, “Father! Mother! Help me! I have lost control! I am falling apart from within! Help me!”

But, they could do nothing short of wiping her from the cosmos. Reflecting upon her own potentially misguided wisdom, Mother wept. Father slapped himself for being so hasty and persistent in the pursuit of pride. In search of other worlds to litter and ravage, some of the daughter’s tiny parasites ventured deep into space with the ships she provided. Following the errant paths of the wasteful machines over their shoulders, the parents retraced the eons of their previous attempts at raising children and wondered how their neighbors, the Andromeda family, fared so well. [What did they truly know about their neighbors? And, did they need to snoop?]

                                                                           *******

“Surprise!” cheered her parents, stirring the young artist from her slumber. The latter rubbed her eyes and followed the visual cues of the former along the curves of her weathered frame. Though she had found herself drowning in darkness and despair only a moment ago, she was now glowing with a renewed sense of peace and a vigor. Gone were the mounds of death and destruction. Those tiny pests she had created were now working together as one happy community, no longer fighting over materials or each other. And, the older forms once thought doomed to extinction were now given their fair share of space to live as Humanity did.

“Happy birthday, my daughter,” said Mother with an earnest smile. “Just look at you, now. So grown-up. So mature. And, to think, a few eons ago, you were ready to throw yourself into the black hole because of some hideous eruption on your face.”

Her father, showing his age with the faintest tint of red in his thinning cheeks and forehead, added, “You have never looked lovelier than you do today, my child. You honor us both. And, look, our neighbors have brought you presents.”

The woozy artist squinted over her parents’ shoulders to see the handful of colorful visitors in the distance, each with tiny surprises headed her way. Neglecting to mention the former identity of the rock chosen as a meeting place, Mother and Father cleared the asteroid field to welcome the guests. Everyone had such a joyous time at the birthday party…

…Except for one tiny solar-powered ship carrying a lone green explorer who steered clear of all the commotion. He didn’t dare venture closer to those he could not yet understand. Instead, he continued his journey through space, watching the universe drift by as he decided what to do with the rest of his life.

 

 

~Writingbolt, 7-26-2014

28
Apr
14

Blogging at Homes in the 21st Century

If you’re just joining the rest of the world in its present state, welcome to the modern world of sharing one’s thoughts via computer in the 21st century. I’m not exactly Mr. Popular. My online postings are typically spontaneous criticisms/philosophies and personal reflections. ‘Not recipes, advice columns, diet or travel journals, religious passages, school calendars, video links or art galleries (which are apparently far more common and popular). So, when I find someone new “following” my blips in the “social media” universe, I have to wonder what made something I shared so interesting.

Most of the time, these “followers” say nothing. And, more often than not, they come with these unusual corporate identities involving everything from hair care to home construction to pharmaceuticals. I suspect this is due to the addition of what we now call “tags” to my posts, or blog/journal entries. A key word might send a signal to some company’s radar system which then sends a team of robots or specialists (PC zombies swiveling mindlessly in their chairs while fumbling with something between their fingers) into action.

As it turns out, that’s just what happened to me recently. And, here’s that story:

It was a mild April afternoon when I felt compelled to pass along a few thousand words about my distrust of modern medicine and disgust with all the commercials rambling about terrifying side-effects (which are necessary to know in advance though they should neither exist nor make people their lab rats). The following afternoon, I discovered a young man with a shaved head and sunglasses–going by the name Barry Swan Pharmaceuticals–“following” my blog. “Well, that’s…interesting,” I muttered before taking a moment to fetch some lunch.

Just as I closed the fridge, I heard a knock at the front door. A stranger–faintly resembling the young man in the picture (with a fuller head of dark brown hair and more flesh in his cheeks)–stood outside in a midnight blue suit (a “twinge” lighter than black in the daylight). I hesitated to answer, fearing all sorts of uncomfortable chats I might end up having. As I withdrew, he knocked, again, stalling me in my tracks. I proceeded to the kitchen where I then heard a loud “clang” or “clap” and jumped back to find the front door ajar. The unknown man remained silent but now visibly restless on the other side. I took a deep breath and confronted the uninvited guest to my doorstep. “Uh. Hi. What can–what is it you wanted?”

Adjusting the clipboard in his pale, waxy hands, the man began, “Mr. (Writingbolt)? I’m here to talk to you about a convenient medical supply service we just recently started and why you should sign up–for a nominal fee–to have any prescriptions you might need right to your doorstep.”

“I-I’m sor– I don’t– I’m not a retiree avoiding nursing homes like the plague.” I clasped my left hand around the outer edge of the door and eased it ahead of the adjacent shoulder. “I’m not even in my forties, yet. Isn’t that what you guys always ask about in your commercials? Being over forty?”

“Mr. (Writingbolt), we’re not so concerned with your age at this moment. The entire nation is getting on board with the new medical insurance system. We’d just like your signature so we can proceed with adding you to our database of potential customers. And, then I’ll be out of your hair. By the way, we sell products for improving the quality and quantity of your hair, too, if you’re interested.”

“Yeah…no thanks. Sorry. Some other time, perhaps.” I don’t know why I even bothered to use such courtesy. As I shut the inner door in his face, I saw him raise an index finger and felt a cold wave of air rush up along my neck and the back of my hand. I didn’t give the whole scene a second thought. [At least, not for the next few minutes.]

Weeks rolled by, and I continued to find new and questionable faces (and some icons instead of faces) tracing my online activity. It’s not the first time such oddities have carried over into my e-mail (electronic mail) box. I’m not surprised (anymore) to find ads for male enhancements and the like though I am grateful most of these get automatically swept into what’s known as the junk folder.

Then, one evening, I thought I saw a car drive by the house with a curious shift in speed. Its headlights slowed to a crawl and then zipped out of sight with an unusual engine sound. Poking my nose through the sheer curtains, I looked for some trace glow of a tail light. All I could see were the amber glows of the aging streetlights and a reflection cast by the table lamp at my back. I lingered for a while, waiting to see if some wild animal might surprise me. [It’s not uncommon for a deer, goose or fox to cross the front lawn.]

Just as I was about to give up my vigil, a searchlight stream cut across my left shoulder. Shielding my eyes, I let go of the curtains and moved toward the table lamp. When my vision cleared, I squinted through the veil and noticed a dark object–roughly the size of a small charcoal grill–hovering outside the window. Another crossed behind the first and curved over the roof. I was only able to make out the shape because the bright beacon had been dimmed. And, now, I could see a small red “eye” glaring at me near the UFO’s base. [Except, this UFO was not from some other planet. It was a “domestic” disturbance of my peace.]

The moment I lowered my guard, the “drone” buzzed back a few feet and began peppering the windows with gunfire. Running down an adjacent corridor to my master bedroom, I noticed one of these flying probes scanning the items laid out on my dresser. A little alarm went off, and the drone paused its data collection to turn its targeting sensors onto me.

Before another window could be shattered, I turned and ducked into the nearest bathroom where no natural light could enter. Here I thought I’d be safe for a moment, at least. I expected to hear police sirens if anyone reported the sounds of gunfire like good neighbors. But, as I counted the beats of my heart, the lagging silence became unnerving. Eventually, I rose from my crouched position beside the toilet and tiptoed back to the picture window where my hands shook as I cautiously fingered the finely cut bullet holes. [Luckily, I had come away from the incident without a scratch.]

I sat down with a book of crossword puzzles and a cup of hot…beverage…for a half-hour before I finally heard a police car easing down my street. The mustached officer waited for me at the front door, and, this time, I didn’t hesitate to answer. But, the questions he proceeded to ask became increasingly uncomfortable. After getting a detailed description of the drone activity, the policeman inquired about my medical insurance plan. At that moment, I decided to cut the interrogation short and excuse myself to take a leak. Officer Ginsborough…or Gingerpecker…told me to watch what I “go around discussing” whether or not I do it online. Then he folded his notepad, settled for a courteous “goodnight” and returned to his station. [Suffice to say, sleep did not come easy neither that night nor any night the following week. It took me two weeks just to get the picture window replaced and two more to afford the bill.]

The next time I had the irrepressible urge to vent my frustrations online, a few days passed before I had another uninvited drone party outside my home. I could barely utter my disapproval before more gunfire sent me diving for protection. This time, they brought some sort of saw and began cutting away a portion of the roof. A brief “whomp”–followed by faint footsteps–sprang from the back door, tugging at my left ear. I felt the warmth from a pair of searchlights before a foreign pair of delicate hands shoved me aside.

Catching a glimpse of curling brown strands–burning red-orange in the path of the probing beacons–I couldn’t focus on the woman’s face as she huffed, “Stay with me if you want to live.”

[And, if you’ve seen your share of sci-fi/action films, you probably can guess how the rest of this story goes. I’ll leave it to your imagination as I remind all of you in the land of blog to be mindful of what you make public from the comfort and convenience of your personal (or office) computers. Those “drones”…they’re practically everywhere. You keep your eyes open and your mouth shut if you know what’s good for ya. But, if you’re going to “follow” or “like” someone’s post, be sure to leave a personalized comment, discussing your interest in the matter. Otherwise, you–and especially I–may never know what’s lurking in the digital shadows.]

 

 

~Writingbolt, 4-25-2014




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