Is That All?

The blood slowly circled down the drain, reluctantly, resisting the pull of gravity and water. He watched it swirl against the pure white of the sink and marveled at the color. Blood was never dark enough on TV. This blood – her blood – it was beautiful, the color of ripe cherries. He’d been pleased to notice it matched her red nail polish perfectly. The color was called Aperitif.

He knew because in one of her many moments of foolish bravery and fearlessness, she’d told him, with a nice little insult tacked on for good measure.

She had been so spirited. He’d truly enjoyed working on her. She’d lasted for weeks before she finally gave up, and she had fought until the very end. Each new method of torture had been met with taunting words and fiery eyes. “Is that all you’ve got?!” she had shouted at him when he’d brandished a new weapon, then spit him in the face when he came closer.

Oh yes, she had been magnificent. He sighed as he tried to get the blood out from under his cuticles. He felt empty now. She had been an unwilling player in his game, but she had become such a big part of his life. And he would like to think that she had felt something for him, too. Hate and love were just two sides of the same coin, after all. It was a shame she had to die. She had so much passion.

He would have to find a new victim now, somewhere else. Someplace where they didn’t know his name and didn’t know to fear him. He would have to choose his next victim carefully; she’d set the bar impossibly high. He’d leave in the morning, he decided.

He turned to her lifeless form on the table and cocked his head to the side, deep in contemplation. He had a body to hide. But first...

He picked up the straight razor.

First he needed to take a souvenir.

---

And with that disturbing little entry, I am done. Can you believe it? It is finally over, Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Murdering Our Muses ends today. The last prompt is Is that all, and please God, let that be all. No more. Ever again. (At least not until the next time.) Now go, check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants, and for Nicky's apology for putting us all through this. *

Is That All?

And That's Why I Got Drunk

Sometimes, when you least expect it, something happens that changes everything. The Butterfly Effect, they call it.

Fate.

Destiny.

Personally, I think Destiny is a name people called “Barbie” give to their rat-sized dogs and spoiled daughters, and Fate is what we blame when our plans fail. Life wasn’t pre-determined. We make our own decisions; we control our lives. Sometimes we’re dealt a shitty hand, and we try to make the best of it. Some of us are luckier than others. But it wasn’t meant to be. It’s all just one big old coincidence.

But then sometimes, when you least expect it, something happens that changes everything. An idea, a change of plans, a right turn instead of a left turn, and life as you know it is over.

I never cared about such nonsense. Until one day, when Nicky asked me to participate in a wee little challenge. She came to me wearing her black and white fuck me shoes, the ones that make her legs go on forever, and she was carrying wine.

Good wine.

Old wine.

She whispered to me, sweet nothings about faceless wordsmiths, about star-crossed lovers separated by distance and misfortune, about well-dressed lions and fantastical time pyramids, about handsome men on an endless road trip, about never-ending lyrics and perpetual puns, about a Texan adventure and a snowy wedding, about a mother’s love, and some unfinished business in California.

She made it sound like an adventure. A journey that only a select few would ever be able to make.

I couldn’t say no. Not when she looked at me like that.

And I realized, it was Destiny. The bitch had finally found me.

And that’s why I got drunk.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is And that's why I got drunk. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

And That's Why I Got Drunk

Deal With It

The job at the button factory was the best thing that had ever happened to her, she told herself while standing in front of the conveyor belt. It was full of buttons, white today, traveling by at a constant but manageable speed. During the two months she’d been working there, she’d noticed that the black ones were much more prone to flaws than the white ones, so she was feeling pretty relaxed today.

When had white buttons on a conveyor belt become her definition of a good day? She found herself dreaming back to happier times. Being a quality control inspector at a button factory hadn’t always been her dream. In fact, it still wasn’t. At one time in her life she had made it a point to follow her dreams, wherever they may take her. And they had taken her to some pretty amazing places.

She’d seen the world, traveled as a groupie with a band, living off their good will and repaying them with favors of the more physical kind. Then she’d backpacked through Europe, living under the stars and making new friends in every city. When it rained in Rome, she left for Madrid. When winter came in Europe, she chatted up an older man at the airport, then told him about her dying niece in Australia, whom she would never get to see again because she didn’t have the money for a plane ticket. She spent the summer on Bondi Beach, getting cozy with one of the lifeguards.

She was in Mexico when she met Ricardo. She fell head over heels, madly in love with him, and him with her. Even now, standing at the production line, she remembered him so vividly. His deep laughter, his kind eyes. They were like magic together. They danced and partied all night long. Alcohol and drugs were plentiful, and the physical attraction palpable. In her mind’s eye she could still see his tousled hair, and her own pleasure painted on his skin in blushing crescent shapes.

It all came to a sudden stop that fateful day three years ago. He’d asked her for a small favor, and she had said yes, her love and trust in him infinite. It had only been a few pounds, tightly wrapped around her thighs and belly. She had been so sure it wasn’t visible that she was carrying anything, but they still knew. Ricardo had come to see her during her trial, and told her he would deal with it; he would take care of it.

He hadn’t.

But now, three years into her twenty-five-year sentence in a Mexican women’s prison, she had landed a job, a privilege only a handful of inmates were given. She was allowed to leave the prison for ten hours every day, heavily shackled, travelling in a secure bus. But for a few minutes each day, she got to see the sky outside of the prison.

Yes, this job at the button factory was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Inspecting buttons on a conveyor belt would make the next twenty-two years go by so much faster.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Deal with it. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Deal With It

Fact or Fiction

In Finnish, there is a unit of distance called poronkusema, which roughly translates into “a reindeer’s pee”. It’s as far as a reindeer can walk in any given direction without having to urinate – about 4.5 miles, depending on the reindeer. Most of the time a poronkusema is more or less a straight line, but sometimes the reindeer will get lost and it’s a big squiggly S-shape, or if the reindeer has to go really badly, it might be tiny little cross-legged circles.

Needless to say, it’s not a very useful unit, nor it is a very useful fact to know.

I apologize.

I have another mile in me, then I have to go.

Now, in the interest of serving you up some facts that are actually useful, let me tell you a little bit about cheese, that wonderful, wonderful substance that Nicky and Mike love so dearly.

This here is a photo I lovingly stole borrowed from Nicky and Mike’s cheesy blog, and for some inexplicable reason, I’m going to give you some entirely fictional facts about these smelly cheeses, in no particular order.

First, there is the wonderful Brie. Hopefully from France, it’s a lovely Brie de Meaux, made with the milk of a cow named Rosa, who lovingly gave birth to a calf and raised him while the electronic pumps pulled every last bit of milk from her udders. The cheese has a very faint aroma that even a cheese-hating Finn can adore. It tastes of mould and spring, and goes very well with a delicate white wine.

The Camembert is very similar to the Brie, but for some inexplicable reason they still have to have different names because some cheese snob in France says so. Nevertheless, the Camembert has a little less fat, and is therefore an excellent diet cheese. But only if you don’t eat it.

Next, there is the cubed Cheddar Cheese. The bane of my existence. Found in everything, the Cheddar Cheese has a sharper taste than the friendly Camembert, and resembles old Lego bricks in appearance. This aged cheese tastes slightly earthy, with an undertone of older gentleman, heavy on the dandruff. Food colouring has been added to give it its yellow tint, and we can only be happy it didn’t come out of a can.

Then there’s the ash-coated Chèvre, a rather soft goat’s milk cheese. Slightly salty, but mild in flavour. A Chèvre is something almost anyone can enjoy. Make sure you get the kind with food grade activated charcoal ash, though, and not the kind with human remains ash. It’s tastier, and you won’t feel bad for eating Uncle Willy.

The Mozzarella looks faintly plastic on this lovely platter, and I can only assume it’s fake. I will not tolerate such cheating and refuse to speak another word of it. Hell, it’s so soft it won’t even do as a murder weapon.

The silly looking round cheese with an orange rind is an Oka, and this one, will in fact do quite nicely as a murder weapon. Just ask Uncle Willy. It goes well with a late harvest Gewürztraminer, or if you’re having problems pronouncing that, any vodka will do, as long as it’s Finlandia. It’s semi-hard (much like Uncle Willy), and while I’ve never tasted it, I can only assume it tastes like cheese, maybe with a faint aftertaste of lost dignity.

The monster in the aluminium package is illegally produced bathtub cheese. It was probably made in Nicky’s and Jepeto’s own bathtub, and has a very pungent smell, due to Jepeto’s frequent cheese baths. This of course has led to a rather nasty yeast infection, causing Jepeto to start producing his very own cheese as well, (thankfully not seen on the cheese platter). It’s best to just stay away from this cheese, for all the reasons mentioned above and many, many more.

We’re almost at the end now, and since the three little white cheese wedges at the edge of the platter are infested with Listeria, I’ll skip those and move on to the last one.

And last, we have the Blue Cheese. The king of horror, this cheese contains more Penicillin than a hospital, and has about the same death rate. It goes well with a strong wine, even better with a gun to put yourself out of your misery. It smells of dirty socks and dead mice, left to rot for exactly 6 days in a humid and warm place. The green or blue colours resemble varicose veins on a beauty queen, and are designed to scare people away. Sadly, many people suffer from an incurable disease called idiocy, and will eat the Blue Cheese anyway. The smell stays with the body long after death.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Fact or fiction. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Fact or Fiction

The Social Experiment

Today I did something I have never done before. I made a lemon-meringue pie. It’s not a very common thing to find here in Finland. In fact, I’ve never seen one in person. But I like lemon, I like meringue, and I like pie.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, let me tell you what could possibly go wrong. Burnt crust all sunken in on itself, yolks in the whites, sugar all over the floor, runny filling, stiff meringue, matrimonial problems due to shouted accusations (he really did cause me to forget to pick the crust), scared cats, sour looks, tiny spoons dropped into the fluffy white never to be seen again.

And that was just the first ten minutes.

After hours of blood, sweat and tears, I finally pulled the finished creation out of the oven, thanking my lucky stars that you couldn’t see the horrible train wreck for a crust just by looking at it. Then I snapped this photo of it with my phone and posted it to Facebook with a message: “I have homemade lemon-meringue pie, I have coffee, and I am bored. Does anyone want to come over?”

I leaned back and felt good about myself.

After hours of staring at the screen, waiting for someone – anyone! – to reply to my message and say that they would love to come over, I finally gave up and ate the entire thing myself. It tasted like failure.

It's like Confucius say, “Shit happens.”

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Confucius. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

The Social Experiment

The Curious Case Of The S

Lately, I’ve been having a rather absurd problem. I know what you’re thinking, but that’s not it; I have pills for that.

The problem is that I’ve been spreading my S around. Yes, my S. My letter S. I keep adding an extra S to the end of words, inadvertently pluralizing the singular subject, making the still-singular verb ill-fitted to deal with the multiplex nature of the subject. In other words, I’ve become grammatically challenged. Or, to use the politically correct term, I have become a person with grammatical disabilities.

Or just plain stupid, for those of you who are synonymically challenged.

I didn’t mean for it to happen. One day it just did. Pesky little ‘S’s, creeping into posts, multiplying, fornicating, breeding, infesting my text with their twisty little offspring.

I can’t help but wonder where all these extra ‘S’s are coming from, and logically, there’s only one explanation. It’s a well known fact that the modern S is a fairly impractical letter, and I can only assume I’m ahead of my time, predicting the end of the S and my subconscious is now trying to get rid of all of my ‘S’s by spreading them around. It’s probably in your best interest to do the same; when the time comes you do not want to sit there with a crapload of extra ‘S’s and nowhere to put them.

Remember, you heard it from me first.

Now go, my friends!

Spread your S around!

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Absurd. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

The Curious Case Of The S

Compulsively

Ziva: Today’s prompt is “compulsively” and I have no idea what to write. Is there something I do compulsively? I mean, I really don’t think I exhibit any compulsive or obsessive behavior. Do I?

M: Hmmm...

Ziva: Think about that really carefully before you answer.

M: Well, I wouldn’t exactly call checking your email every 30 seconds compulsive or obsessive. It’s pretty standard internet behavior these days.

Ziva: Uh-huh.

M: And you know, it’s pretty normal to get withdrawal symptoms when you’re away from your laptop for two hours, so I wouldn’t worry about that, either.

Ziva: Right.

M: Not to mention that thing you do, you know when you have to brush your teeth for EXACTLY two minutes? And how you ALWAYS have to save the tastiest bite of your food for last, and how I can’t load the dishwasher because you have a certain way of loading it that is right, and it’s the ONLY way. Yeah, that’s all pretty standard stuff.

Ziva: ...

M: And checking that you didn’t leave the stove on THREE TIMES before going to bed is just common sense, really. And I don’t mind running back to make sure the front door is really locked when we’re going somewhere and we’re already in the car.

Ziva: ...

M: And truly, checking for spiders every single time before you get into the car, in the middle of winter, in Finland, when the car’s in freezing temperatures all day long, every day, and all the spiders are either dead or hibernating, that’s just sensible self-preservation.

Ziva: ...

M: ...

Ziva: Well, that post wrote itself.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Compulsively. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Compulsively

Last Train

I was staring out the window. Well, I was pretending to stare out the window; it was dark outside and the harsh light in the train turned my window into a one-way mirror. All I could see was the empty look in my own eyes. I knew anyone standing outside the train as it went by could see it, too.

It was the last train of the night, when the night was at its darkest and people at their worst. The train was full of them. Drunks. Addicts. Outcasts. Runaways. The girl who refused to do the walk of shame in broad daylight, guilt in her eyes. The man in a wrinkled suit, skin white where his wedding band used to be. The old woman, weary and tired, eyes swollen and red.

And me. Riding the train because I had nowhere else to go.

Just like the rest of them.

The man in the seat in front of me reeked of stale urine and sweat and alcohol. His eyes met mine in the window, distorted by the false mirror. Everything lies.

They were empty, his eyes. Like mine. A glimmer of recognition. One vagrant recognizing another.

Slowly, he turned around in his seat and faced me. Waited until I looked up to offer me his drink. Cheap vodka. Two for one.

The bottle was unopened and I took it, trying to tell myself I would’ve accepted it even he’d been drinking from it. Pride wasn’t my friend anymore.

“You look lonely.” A statement. His voice was soft and friendly.

“So do you.”

“Good. Loneliness makes alcohol taste better.” He winked at me, and suddenly his eyes weren’t quite so empty.

“Are you sure it’s not alcohol that makes loneliness taste better?”

“Oh, you might be right. Chickens and eggs, you know.”

Silence stretched between us as I took another sip from the bottle.

“I’m homeless, too.” I wasn’t, of course. But I wasn’t really lying; my soul felt lost enough to be homeless.

“I lost everything. My wife, my kids, my home, my dignity.”

He sighed deeply and as the train hummed its lullaby, he told me his story of woe.

“I’m sorry.” And I really was. He was a drunk, but he was also a person who’d been through hell, and this is what hell did to people. It broke them, left them battered and lonely, sitting on the last train of the night, filthy and smelly, soaking up the last of the warmth, staring at hollow reflections in the window.

Except, he wasn’t broken. He wasn’t gone. He’d started talking to me. He’d shared his booze and his story, expecting nothing in return. Perhaps there was hope for humanity still.

As I stood up to get off the train, to go find my way back home again, he grabbed my arm and looked at me for a long time.

“I don’t suppose you have any change, do you?”

I gave him the loose change in my pocket and moved to a different seat. I wasn’t getting off the train just yet.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Last train. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Last Train

The Evil Twin

The other shoe, much like the first shoe, was roughly the shape of a foot. One of those nicely shaped, albeit oddly hollow, foots with a freakishly tall heel.

And much like the first shoe, the other shoe had a bright red sole – a statement saying “I cost more than any shoe should ever realistically cost, but all the guilt and shame you feel for spending that much money on me will vanish when you see the jealous looks of women and the adoring looks of men.”

It was a beautiful shoe. Gorgeous. Just like its twin.

But alas, it was an evil shoe. In all its divine beauty, even with that scarlet glimpse of heaven with each step, it was vicious, destroying everything it loved, pinching, squeezing. Agony. Torture.

It couldn’t stay.

It was a thing of immense beauty. An enticingly resplendent vision in black.

But it had to go.

I still dream about them, and weep for them from time to time.

We had a good run, the first shoe and the other shoe and I.

---

This incredibly uninspired post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is The other shoe. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

The Evil Twin

Little Things

There are certain moments in life that define you. Not necessarily in a big way; I’m not talking about grand gestures and life-changing events. I’m talking about the little things. The things that you observe and experience, the things that unexpectedly make your heart swell with happiness, that make an adventure truly special. The things that make a house feel like a home.

Those little things, those small moments are what keep us alive when the big things get us down.

For me, it’s the scent of spices in the air when you get off the airplane in a foreign country. It’s unfamiliar faces and white smiles and exotic foods that you can’t quite decide if you love or hate. It’s the tickle of stubble against my face when I kiss my husband, and the soft and warm cat at the foot of the bed when I wake up in the morning.

It’s when my little brother says something funny and makes my chest swell with pride and love and makes me want to ruffle his immaculate hair that he spent ages getting just right. It’s when my sister calls just to say hi, and the laughter fills me up until I can’t contain it anymore and spills out over the phone line.

It’s the rain on my skin and the way it makes the sea surface bounce and bubble like a witch’s cauldron. It’s the blue hour right after the sun has set when every photograph I take is magic. It’s the moment of pure joy and deep sorrow when I get to the last page of the best book I’ve ever read. Again.

It’s the smooth ivory under my fingers when I reminisce with the piano I first learned to play on. It’s the comfortable warmth of friendship as I sit down with someone and it feels like yesterday. It’s the lavender blue fluttering in my chest as I time and time again realize exactly how cherished I am.

Yes, it’s the little things that keep us going.

But they’re really big little things.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Little things. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Little Things

Home At Last

She came back to Europe to watch the war. Watch the fireworks as cities were crushed and people bled out in the street. She wanted to see mankind slaughter itself, listen to the tortured souls scream in agony as they lost everyone and everything.

It reminded her of him. Whom she didn’t love. Far from it. She hated him. With a vengeance.

She stood on her balcony and watched him burn.

It felt good to be home.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Home at last. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Home At Last

Whatever, Dude

”Could you please chop the eggplant, slice the onion and cut the carrots julienne style?”

I froze by the cutting board, knife in hand, apron on, and stared at Scott. He was trying to teach me how to cook and I was currently weighing the huge chef’s knife in my hand, trying to assess the damage it would make if I threw it at his julienne style ass.

Deciding to give him another chance, I put the knife down and took a deep breath.

“What exactly is julienne?” I asked. Then added as an afterthought, “And what the hell is the difference between chopping and slicing?”

Scott took a break from the important task of stirring something in a pan and stared at me. I could tell he was less than pleased with my lack off culinary skills, but hell, he’s the one who offered to teach me. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

“Right, let’s start from the basics. Chop means to cut the food into large irregular pieces. Mince is the same thing as chop, only smaller. Cubes are uniform pieces, usually 1/2 inch on each side. To dice is the same thing as cube, only smaller. Slice means flat, thin pieces and julienne means thin, match like sticks about two inches long. Got it?”

Was he kidding? I had already forgotten half of what he said. “No problem.”

I grabbed the knife again and tried to remember what he had said about julienne. Finally I decided it couldn’t matter that much and chopped the lot. We were making vegetarian lasagna after all, and I’d never stopped to poke at my lasagna to see what form the vegetables were in.

The lasagna had been my idea – the vegetarian part was Scott’s idea. Personally I would’ve loved to add a little cow into the mix, but Scott refused to cook anything that used to have a tail. I never understood the moral code some people live by. Then again, I still understood Scott far better than I understood most other men. Many years ago we’d dated each other for a brief period of time, but eventually he realized women wasn’t really his thing, and I realized I preferred to date men whose testosterone level was actually higher than mine.

I handed him the chopped vegetables and walked over to the stove. I looked down at the sauce. It looked, well, vegetarian. Frowning at it, I grabbed the spoon and stirred a little. Nope, still vegetarian.

Scott was eyeing me with an amused look on his face. “It’s good you know. Try it.”

Skeptically I grabbed the smallest spoon I could find and dipped into the sauce, shaking the excess vegetables off. I brought the spoon up to my mouth and gingerly stuck my tongue out to taste it. It was good. Really good. Not that I was going to tell him that.

“Well?”

“Meeh.”

Scott sighed and muttered something that sounded vaguely rude. He turned away from the pan to cut the spinach and I quickly grabbed another spoonful of sauce while he wasn’t looking, savoring the taste.

“Do we really need the spinach?” I asked around a mouthful of the sinfully delicious sauce.

“Yes. You can’t make decent lasagna without spinach.”

“Please…”

“No.”

“I’ll set you up with the cute guy at the office?”

Scott let out a snort, clearly disgusted with my pathetic blackmailing skills. “There will be spinach, suck it up.”

I watched as he added the offending leaves to the sauce, silently thinking it might actually not be so bad.

“So, do you think you’ll remember how to do this?”

“Not a chance.”

Scott let out a bark of laughter at that. “So if you’re not going to learn how to cook, why exactly did you want me to come over here and give you a cooking lesson?”

“I wanted lasagna, of course. Plus, you might be gay, but you’re still nice to look at.” I winked and then ducked as he threw a piece of eggplant my way.

Together we layered the pasta with the sauces and I decided maybe cooking wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, I was feeling pretty damn domestic as I sprinkled grated cheese on top. Of course, no one ever told me lasagna takes an eternity and a half in the oven. But when we finally got to sit down and taste it, it was worth it all. I couldn’t contain my moan of pleasure, and in a never-before-seen feat of quick thinking, I pretended it was a moan of disgust.

The laugh lines appearing around Scotts eyes told me I didn’t have him fooled, though.

“It’s good, isn’t it? Just admit it.”

I have him a dirty look and shoveled more lasagna into my mouth. “Whatever, dude.”

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Whatever, dude. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Whatever, Dude

Music

“What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“A feeling, I think.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah... It should arrive any second now.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just pressed play.”

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Music. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Music

Or Else

Something is wrong, I can feel it.

The world isn’t quite right. At the back of my throat the bitter taste of adrenaline mixes with a coppery tang.

Something is very wrong. Where am I?

Please stop crying, my head hurts.

I can smell gasoline, feel the disturbance of twisted metal.

I’ll open my eyes, please stop crying.

Why are you upside down? You’re all wrong.

No, the world is upside down.

I’m all wrong. I’m the outsider. I don’t belong here.

Please stop crying, it wasn’t your fault.

No baby, I can’t promise you that.

Please, no ultimatums, no or elses. We can’t threaten or bargain our way out of this.

You’ll be okay.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Or else. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Or Else

Where Can I Get A Good Blintz?

“Where can I get a good blintz?”

Certainly not in Finland, that’s where. I’d never even heard of a blintz until I read the list of prompts for Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Hell.

Apparently it was MikeWJ's idea, which doesn’t surprise me at all – after all, it was Mike who came up with “Kafkaesque” as a prompt during the photo challenge back in whenever it was.

A blintz. Couldn’t he have made it something a little less random, something a little easier to write about? Like, a Karelian pasty.

“Were can I get a good Karelian pasty?”

“Why, the little bakery at Hämeenkatu and Kellonsoittajankatu has some great Karelian pasties. You should try there.”

Easy! But a blintz? How am I supposed to write about that?

This post could’ve been a masterpiece. Witty dialogue, a compelling atmospheric setting, clever compliments hidden in double negatives, and quirky characters not entirely unlike Indigo's bears and beavers and badgers.

But no. Today’s prompt doesn’t lend itself to that. At least not for me. Because, much like mayors, we have no blintzes in Finland.

So to answer the question everyone’s asking today; nowhere. That’s where.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Where can I get a good blintz?. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Where Can I Get A Good Blintz?

Unintended

Warning! Today's post is a fictional story containing adult themes. If you think this might offend you, I suggest you stop reading now. -Ziva

---

She lost it on the dare.

Her eyes were riveted on his black ones. His face was mere inches from hers, his lips so close they shared the same breath. Sexual tension hung heavy in the air, the warmth of his body affecting her ability to think straight. He spoke without hesitation, and the authority in his voice made her shiver.

“Fuck me.”

Up until that point, they were just two friends having a good time. They had given up on becoming a couple a long time ago. They were friends and co-workers, never lovers, even if she privately regretted it. She was engaged to Joseph now. They loved each other, and they were making it work.

When she’d told him the news, he’d acted strange at first, but then he just seemed to accept it. No declaration of love. No he-is-the-wrong-guy-for-you speech. Nothing. They’d just slipped into a comfortable friendship. Gone were the innuendos, the touches and the flirting. Until today. Until this friendly game of truth or dare.

It had started out innocently enough.

“Truth or dare?” he’d asked, a smile on his lips, his long fingers playing with his wine glass.

“Truth.”

They were sitting on the couch, close to each other, but not too close. He was slouched back, relaxed, and she was mellow and happy from the wine.

“When, where and to whom did you lose it?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know the answer to that one. It was Joseph, at a party, when I was seventeen,” she said with a smile. She had the urge to add with the candlestick, but she doubted he’d ever played Clue growing up.

“I knew the answer, I just wanted to start you off with an easy one.” he smiled.

“My turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Same question.”

He chuckled.

“I was fifteen. It was the girl next door and it happened in my own bed.”

To her surprise, she felt a sudden prick of jealousy towards the girl next door. Ignoring the feeling, she took a sip from her wine and continued the game.

“Your turn, I choose truth.”

“Was it worth it?”

She didn’t understand what he meant and probably looked confused, because he continued.

“Losing it to him, at that party. Was it worth it?”

Who was he to ask her that? Annoyed, she turned her head to look at him. His hair was down, brushing his shoulders in silky strands. He was wearing a black t-shirt and washed-out jeans. He looked good enough to eat, and she was suddenly very aware of that. He had an unreadable look in his eyes, and she felt her annoyance melt away.

“No.” I’d rather it had been you.

“Truth.” he said before she could ask.

Suddenly, she needed to know. “Do you ever think about me?”

His answer came immediately. “All the time.”

She felt a shiver run down her spine and regretted asking the question.

“Truth or dare?” he asked, pinning her with his look.

She hesitated. The atmosphere had changed and she wasn’t sure she could, or even wanted to answer another question. His previous answer had stirred up old feelings inside of her. Feelings she thought were gone a long time ago.

“Truth.”

“Do you think about me?”

Of course. “Sometimes.”

“Truth or dare?” She asked, even though she knew she needed to end this game. It was a game she couldn’t win.

“Truth.”

She hesitated. “Why didn’t you say anything when I told you I was going to marry Joseph?”

“I wanted you to make your own decisions. I didn’t want you to give up on the real thing just because you had some stupid crush on me.”

“It was never a stupid crush.” She whispered.

“Then what was it?” he asked softly.

She looked away; overwhelmed by emotion. She was pretty sure the answer to his question was love. She had loved him then and she loved him now and for some reason that broke her heart.

“Truth or dare?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She really wasn’t sure she wanted to play anymore. The game had turned from a friendly game to something else. Something that had nothing to do with her and Joseph and the engagement and had everything to do with her and him and the unexplored feelings she was having towards him.

“Truth.” Her voice sounded strangely far away. She felt like she was watching from somewhere else.

“Are you happy with him?”

Up until an hour ago she had truly believed she was happy with Joseph. They had a nice, comfortable relationship. But now, now she didn’t know what to think anymore. He was awakening feelings inside of her that went beyond mere lust. This was desire on a deeper level. She wanted him, and she wanted him badly. She wanted him not only in her bed, but in her life. In her heart. It was a question she was not ready to answer. So she lied.

“Yes.”

“Liar.” His lips were quirked up in a knowing smile.

“Truth or dare?” She asked, ignoring his accusation.

“Truth.”

“Will your life ever lend itself to a relationship?” She threw his own words back in his face and felt a flash of satisfaction as a brief look of hurt flashed across his face.

“No.” he said, shaking his head. “But I would give it a try.” he added, and she could hear the truth of his words.

She drew a sharp breath, the muscles in her lower abdomen contracting at his words, instant arousal flaring through her body. She was so mad at him, but at the same time, the attraction was eating her alive. He had no right to tell her he’d be willing to try a relationship when she was already engaged to another man.

“Truth or dare.” he asked, daring her to stop the game.

She was scared, angry, nervous and aroused at the same time. She was feeling too much, and she needed to stop this game before things got out of control. Realizing what she’d just thought, she mentally shook her head. Things were already out of control. At least out of her control. She was on the road to disaster, and she didn’t have any brakes. Intellectually, she knew that she could just ask him to leave. Emotionally, she knew that she would never do it. So she played.

“Truth.”

“Do you wish it was me?” he asked, leaning forward, dark eyes never leaving her. “Do you wish it was me who put that ring on your finger? Do you wish it were me in your bed every night? Do you fantasize about it being me?” his voice was rough with something she couldn’t place.

Her breath caught at his question. The images of him in her bed from that one magnificent night were vivid in her head and she felt her breathing turn ragged, lust curling deep in her belly.

“I changed my mind. I choose dare.” She whispered, her voice breaking.

He moved with the grace of a big, dangerous cat. He had her pinned to the couch in a matter of seconds, his hands on either side of her head, his weight pressing her down. Her eyes were riveted on his black ones. His face was mere inches from hers, his lips so close they shared the same breath. Sexual tension hung heavy in the air, the warmth of his body affecting her ability to think straight. He spoke without hesitation, and the authority in his voice made her shiver.

“Fuck me.”

He knew he had her now. He knew she wouldn’t tell him no. She knew now that she had made a mistake when she agreed to marry Joseph. This was where she was meant to be, with him. They were at the point of no return, and she lost it on the dare.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Unintended. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Unintended

The Day I Met Abraham Lincoln

Whatever Nicky tells you today, she’s lying; this prompt was NOT my idea, and you can NOT blame me. Instead, do what I do, blame CheesyMike.

Still, as today’s prompt is “The day I met Abraham Lincoln”, I guess I have to write about the day I met Abe.

It was a dark and stormy night. The kind of dark when even the white of the falling snow seems to absorb every ray of light from the street lamps. Every seat in the theater was occupied and there was a sense of expectation in the air.

It was a night made for tragedy.

The film was really good, though, and the popcorn was awesome.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is The day I met Abraham Lincoln. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

The Day I Met Abraham Lincoln

Road Trip

”Holy shit, you can’t put it there!”

“Where am I supposed to put it then?”

“Any other place than that, that’s definitely the wrong hole.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as the wrong hole.”

“That’s an out-hole. Things aren’t supposed to go in there.”

“How do you know if you’ve never tried?”

“I just know.”

“Babe.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t feel comfortable doing this.”

“You’re going to regret it if you don’t.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You’d really like it. It’s amazing.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I think you’re turned on by the fact that I’ve done it.”

“Bite me.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me honestly you’ve never thought about it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Everyone’s thought about it at some point.”

“Not me.”

“Your nose gets that cute wrinkle when you lie.”

“So I’ve thought about. Big deal. Happy now?”

“Yes, I am. Sure you don’t want to try? Just once?”

“I’m positive. And my nose doesn’t wrinkle.”

“Please…?”

“Don’t ask me to do this; you know I’m a sucker for you asking nicely.”

“Just one time. For me. Please.”

“Again with the please…Fuck, I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”

“I love you.”

“You’re going to have to prove it to me after this.”

“Gladly. You ready?”

“I think so.”

“Come on then, press against it.”

“Oh my God, it will never fit inside.”

“It will fit, try again.”

“It’s too tight.”

“You’re not trying hard enough.”

“Maybe we need some vaseline?”

“Just push, will you.”

“Holy crap, it actually went inside.”

“See, I told you it would be fun.”

“What happens now?”

“Now we wait.”

“For what?”

“We wait for Nicky and Mike to start the car and then watch their faces as that potato shoots out of the tailpipe.”

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Road trip. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Road Trip

Absolute Power

The prompt for today is “The mayor”. Problem is, we don’t have mayors in Finland. I have absolutely nothing to say about mayors, about elected officials, or about politics. But when I think about mayors, I think about power. And yesterday, I had the power.

In a sports hall full of karatekas, I was out of place. Everyone else was dressed in a white gi, the colour of their belts and the speed of their movements giving away their skill level.

I was dressed in black. All black. And I was slow.

But still, I had the power.

Why? Because I was carrying the camera.

Even the most fearsome 5th dan black belts stepped out of my way when they heard the sharp metallic click of my shutter. There was bleeding, bruises, pain and agony, but the one person everyone was afraid of, was me. Me and my Canon.

You'll be collecting your teeth off the floor.

Nope, too fast for you!

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is The mayor. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Absolute Power

My 15 Minutes Of Fame

"List three different kinds of fish that live in brackish water."

It was an easy question, but just like last week, the cameras were distracting. I could see the little red lights on each of them, indicating that they were recording. We weren’t supposed to look at the cameras, but those red lights were taunting me, daring me to look at them. Look at us shine, they were saying, we’re not awkward or insecure or uncomfortable, we’re confident and capable, and we certainly didn’t let our mom talk us into wearing that horrible sweater on TV.

I shot the little red lights, and the entire TV audience, a resentful look and tried to focus on the question. It was my turn to write down my answer, and literally tens of people were waiting. All eyes were on me as I shakily wrote down my answer in large TV friendly block letters, checking the spelling twice; I’d been teased mercilessly last week.

Why did the sweater have to be orange?

"May I have the answer?"

I wasn’t sure I wanted to give him mine, but I didn’t dare tell him that. Luckily, my answer was correct, but so was my opponent’s. Back and forth we went. She scored a point, I scored a point. I scored a point, she scored a point. Good thing one of us didn’t jump off a bridge, the other one would have surely followed just to make it a tie.

It all came down to the last question.

To this day, I cannot remember what that question was. All I know is that I walked out of that TV studio with the bigger cheque. Weeks of sleeplessness, agony and horrific nerves, and I came out the winner.

It was just a silly game show on a local TV network, but dammit, I showed those little red lights what I was made of.

Oh, and that sweater? I was teased endlessly about it.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is 15 minutes. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

My 15 Minutes Of Fame

French

It’s 23:05, Friday night. I’ve had the longest day in the history of 24-hour clocks. Today’s prompt is French. That’s it, just French.

French...

French...

Nope, this is not going to work, I can’t just keep repeating the prompt over and over again.

French. What’s French? France comes to mind. Quebec, too. And several parts of Africa, strangely enough. My, the French were a bit overzealous when it came to the whole colony thing, weren’t they? So were the Brits. And speaking of Brits, M and I have one living with us right now! I should always have someone sitting in the corner speaking British; it’s highly entertaining.

Right, French.

I’m having some wine, but I know for a fact it’s Spanish, not French. I’m having chocolate, too, but it is distinctly Finnish, not French. Oh, and now it’s gone. Well, I still have half a bottle of wine. At least that’s something.

French...

I know some French. I can introduce myself in French, and I’m pretty sure I can insult someone in French, too, but the only time I’ve ever actually needed to know any French was when someone asked me for directions to the restrooms during my pilgrimage to a French monastery. “À gauche,” I said, feeling silly. I was sure there was supposed to be a “la” in there somewhere.

Oh! The metric system is a French thing. Apparently they actually did contribute something good to the world. Apart from French kissing, that is.

What else is French?

Moodiness is French, I think. They have this air of nonchalance that no one else has. They’re tall and skinny and look like they’ve slept far too little and enjoyed it far too much. If I ever went to France again I’d have to gain five inches, lose 20 pounds and remember to look enigmatic and anemic.

Oops, I seem to have drunk all my wine. Well, this post wasn’t really happening today anyway.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is French. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

French

Texting

Me

Yeah, your face keep falling off.

Michael Whiteman-Jones

I know. I'm trying to figure out how to work my face into my Haven post. No luck so far.

Me

Oh, haven. I had an idea for that but now I can't remember.

Michael Whiteman-Jones

You're too tired to think.





Me

I am. It's scary. This is what is must be like to be you.

Michael Whiteman-Jones

I hate you. Bitch. :D

Me

:D

Michael Whiteman-Jones


That was a brilliant line. I wonder if you could use it somehow for 28 days?

Me

If I do, I'll fix the damn S.

Michael Whiteman-Jones

You hope you will.

Me

I have a serious S problem. I was trying to type "what's" earlier, and I left the s out, and just now I put in an extra s, and a few messages ago, I left it out from “keeps”.

Michael Whitman-Jones

Maybe you should try leaving all your S's out and see if that helps.





Me

You might have a hard time undertanding me.





Michael Whiteman-Jones

Perhap. But I think I could adjut to it in time. It would help not to be leepy, of coure.





Me

Why are you peaking to me in Chinee?


Okay, I have to go to bed.

Michael Whiteman-Jones

It's ridiculous to have to get up at 6 am.





I believe, and I should write a manifesto supporting this, that nobody should have to get to work before 10 am or stay longer than 4 pm.





Me

Well, I get off at 4 pm.

Michael Whiteman-Jones

I get off whenever I can.
 :D

Me

Worst. Joke. Ever. Apologize for it, right now.





Michael Whiteman-Jones

I take the low-hanging comedic fruit.





Me

You've angered the Comedic Gods.

Michael Whiteman-Jones

They don't have much of a sense of humor, do they?

Me

Now see, THAT was a brilliant line. :D

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Texting. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Texting

Haven

We all have that place inside us, don’t we? That inner haven where magic happens, where chocolate doesn’t have calories and copious amounts of wine is good for you, not to mention socially acceptable. It’s a place of moody skies and stormy waters, a place to calm the soul. We seek out that place when life gets to be too much. Too much stress, too much pressure, too much heartache.

But sometimes when we need it the most, that place is gone. Empty and barren. We count on it, rely on it, we need it to be there when we call on it; but one day, it’s just not there. Hopes and dreams live on, growing sour, more and more desperate as time goes by.

Foiled by our own self, we’re lost.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Haven. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Haven

Nicky, You Better Put Out

“You better put out,” is what I told Nicky when she asked me to participate in the madness that is 30 minus 2 Days of Writing. Not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine she would turn that little comment into a prompt. Mostly because I imagine a lot of non-repeatable things about Nicky in my wildest dreams, and a silly little writing prompt doesn’t even merit a stray appearance. Had I been inclined to think about it, though, I’m sure I would’ve seen it coming, but being as focused on awkward bananas as I was, it took me by surprise.

So here I am, trying to write about Nicky putting out for me without straying into R-rated territory.. And people, I’m not having much luck with it. So instead, I’m going to do something different. I’m going to tell you the story of how I fell in love with Nicky. I’ve told you this story before, but I think Nicky’s awesome enough that she deserves to hear it again.

It was a beautiful spring day. It could also have been fall, or winter, or even summer, I can’t really remember, but it’s not important to the story anyway, so just go with it.

It was a beautiful spring/fall/winter/summer day. Of course, since I can’t even remember what time of year it was, I can’t really say for sure that it was a beautiful day. It could very well have been raining small popular mammals or snowing or even just been overcast and dull. Finnish weather isn’t very predictable and I can’t be expected to remember what the weather was like that beautiful spring day. Anyway, let’s just get on with the story.

Small popular mammal.

It was a beautiful/rainy/overcast/gray/snowy spring/fall/winter/summer day. Come to think of it, it probably wasn’t even day, what with the time zones and all. It was probably in the middle of the night and I should have been in bed hours ago and I probably had to work the next day and I probably spent all day at work yawning like Mike’s faceless skull, and then I probably took a nap after work, which shifted my internal clock forward to make me more internet-adapted, but at the same time making me less work-adapted and less Finland-adapted, which eventually resulted in the permanent black circles I have under my eyes now as a result of living on four hours of sleep every night.

Back to the story.

It was a beautiful/rainy/overcast/gray/snowy spring/fall/winter/summer day/night/evening/morning. You know, it probably didn’t even happen in one day or night at all. Now that I think about it, it happened over time, slowly but surely, like the sun slowly growing and expanding until it eventually kills everything on this planet in a raging inferno of fire and brimstone, souls screaming in agony and babies crying for their mommy, but less gruesome and more sweet.

Okay, that doesn’t really work story-wise, either. I think it’s best if we just start over completely, don’t you think?

The first time she commented on my blog, I thought she was a man. She spelled her name weirdly, like a man, and she grabbed her balls a lot, too. Or so I thought, but as it turned out, she didn’t have any balls so I guess she mostly just grabbed her man’s balls. Or maybe she didn’t grab any balls at all and that’s something I made up just now. I really don’t know, I’m writing this at work and I think my brain is still asleep because I stayed up too late reading her blog again.

Magic 8-ball, shown here with small popular mammal.
Not relevant to the story.

I’m really not doing the story justice.

I love Nicky, okay?! And I have to tell you, she gives awesome Skype.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is You better put out. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Nicky, You Better Put Out

Friendship

Do you know that horrible and dark feeling when you’re walking up a set of stairs and you know there’s one more step, except there isn’t, and for a brief, harrowing moment, even with your foot just inches off the floor, you’re falling, helpless; what once was an absolute truth to you, ceases to exist in the blink of an eye. Know that feeling?

Yeah, friendship is nothing like that.

True friendship, while sometimes a bit harrowing (especially with friends like Zelma), is a beautiful, stable and permanent thing.

Let me demonstrate for you.

Picture if you will, a swamp. Not a big Florida swamp, more like a smallish area of knee-deep water in the Finnish woods. Now picture two girls, about nine or ten years old, playing at the swamp, jumping from one little grassy island to another. Ziva is the one in orange jeans and Zelma is the one with pigtails.

Now picture a cat. She belongs to Zelma, but in reality, she belongs to no one. She comes and goes as she pleases, and only seeks out the company of people when she can't be bothered to catch her own dinner. She's a tabby, and she's sitting by a tree, watching the girls play. To anyone watching her she appears bored, which would make sense, because she is.

She’s not really paying attention to what the girls are saying -- a big mistake. The girls are getting excited now, voices raised. They’re scrambling around, trying to find a suitable piece of wood. They find one; a two-foot long board, and they test it to see if it floats. It does, as wood has tendency to do.

Ziva, in her orange jeans, is animated, gesturing and laughing, plotting. Zelma is laughing, too, but it’s not clear whether she’s laughing at Ziva, or with Ziva. Either way, she’s clearly onboard with whatever it is Ziva’s up to.

Ziva grabs the cat and Zelma holds the board steady. Onto the board goes the cat and out into the swamp goes the board. Laugher and panicked meows mingle in the air, an awkward marriage of happy and horrified.

The girls are watching the amazing sailing cat, slowly traveling across the vast ocean. The cat isn’t as happy, of course. She’s frantic, tail bushy with adrenaline. She’s gone from lazily enjoying her life to survival mode in five seconds flat.

On solid ground, Ziva and Zelma are too busy enjoying the spectacle to consider terms such as “animal cruelty” or “horribly mean little girls”, and they scream with laughter as the poor cat makes a jump for it, narrowly misses the dry grass and ends up with a very wet tail.

Back in the now, Ziva and Zelma have a developed a fashion sense and a conscience, but one thing remains the same; whether the suggestion is to run away to Sweden, get drunk in a cave, or put on an impromptu flute concert in a park, the other one is always game.

And that’s what friendship is; never second-guessing each other’s decisions, always being there for them, and sometimes simply joining them in the crazy.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Friendship. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Friendship

And The Next Thing I Knew, I Was In a Mental Asylum

M-N-O-P, M-N-O-P, M-N-O-P, Nilsson, I before O, Nilsson before Nordström… O before P, no wait.. Yes, O before P. K-L-M, K-L, K-L, K-L, K-L......

There are no windows in this room. Six feet by ten feet of darkness and misery.

R-S-T-U... R-S-T...

A bare light bulb hangs in the ceiling and I can feel my sanity slowly draining from me as I shuffle the papers back and forth.

C-D-E-F, E-F... E-F... E-F... E-F... E-F... E-F... E-F...

I shake my head. If I don’t catch myself in time I’ll go into broken record mode and an hour will go by with me simply staring at the files, silently repeating the same two letters over and over again.

Someone laughs manically and the sound frightens me until I realize I’m the one laughing. All is good.

G-H-I-J, F-G-H, Gustafsson before Häggblom.

My skin feels like paper, and I briefly stop to stare at my hand. I wonder if all the filing has made me one with the archives. I wonder what kind of superhero that would make me. The Amazing Archive Girl  - ask me anything, I know everything. Yes, even that. Oh, or maybe The Paper Girl – because paper cuts hurt like a bitch. I could definitely see this being a hit on the big screen. I’ll be rich. Christopher Nolan, call me.

Nolan. Before Nordström, after Nilsson.

I’m standing in a pool of my own sanity. It’s green.  P-Q... Not a lot of surnames beginning with Q over here. Hell, we don’t even have a lot of words containing it. Silly little letter. We should take it out of the alphabet. Sell it to the French.

Å-Ä-Ö, Å-Ä-Ö... I love the cute little dots and circles. Try explaining them to an American, though. Impossible. Like... well, explaining something to an American.

K-L-M, K-L-M, K-L-M... Look at that, something's floating in my sanity. Ohh! It’s a raisin!

Lunch is served.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is And the next thing I knew. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

And The Next Thing I Knew, I Was In a Mental Asylum

Hold On

Sanity is a fickle thing, anchored in us only by way of rational thinking. But the rational mind can at times be horribly irrational, and when irrationality is present, rationality is absent, and in the absence of rationality there can only be irrationality, rationally speaking. It’s a dangerous thing when irrationality takes ahold of rationality and tries to rationalize its way into the rational mind. See, with rationality in mind, sanity is never far away, but holding onto that rational thinking is imperative to keeping irrationality at bay; it’s far too easy to simply lose hold of one’s sanity, like that elusive piece of slippery soap in the communal shower.

Remember this, my friends, and stay tuned for tomorrow’s story, in which, I lose hold of my sanity and will eventually have to bend over.

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Hold on. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

Hold On

A Fate Worse Than Death

The moment of death doesn’t happen when the body stops breathing.

No, that’s just the final release.

True death happens a long time before the body gives up. It happens as the inevitability of fate settles on the mind like tar, poisoning thoughts and tearing the future away. Gone is the blue sky and sun-warmed skin. Gone is the sound of laughter and friendly faces. Gone is the smell of freshly cut grass and that moment when laughter gets so intense it starts to hurt.

There is no time to mourn happy memories. The silence is deafening, filling existence with its wail, its black light so bright that everything becomes a reflection of what it was.

And you take her hand and force yourself to look at her, really look at her, as the words sink in. Torture, stripped of its weapons and reduced to those seven words, finally reveal its purest form.

“There will be cheese on your food.”

---

This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing challenge. Today’s prompt is Cheesy. Go check out We Work For Cheese for a list of the other participants. *

A Fate Worse Than Death