WOW! Look how behind I am!
It’s no excuse, but I have been busy with finals and working on other writing projects.
Let’s see how fast I can catch up!
Category: May Blog Challenge
Day 6
Write a rhyming poem about getting increasingly drunk
The first drink goes down with more pain than gain,
The sticky sweet alcohol burning like acid rain.
The next few more, easier still,
The taste beginning to resemble more than swill.
By drink four or perhaps five,
My skin starts to tingle and I feel alive.
I drink and drink and drink again,
Then the spinning starts to begin.
Still with more drinks, I fill my belly.
I try to stand to drink more, but my legs are jelly.
I stumble forward, grasping the countertop,
I challenge any man to tell me stop.
If they want to fight and tell me no more,
I shall kick their sober asses out my door.
Forget these glasses, and the ice,
I shall chug from the bottle, and more drunk by twice!
More and more, the room it spins,
If I throw up, I shall have to begin again.
I fight off the blackness and the shadows,
I find another bottle and down it goes.
More drinking and drinking on and on,
How many more drinks until my brain cells are gone?
I start to mumble, call for more,
Are we out? Send someone to the store!
I drown myself in the drink,
Prevent myself from trying to think.
The day I’ve had was one I wish to forget,
I need more drink, it hasn’t happened yet.
More and more drink, down I throw.
Where did the last five minutes go?
At the corners of my vision, the blackness appears
I haven’t been this drunk, guess I’m sleeping here.
I curse quite loudly as the floor hits my face,
I spilt my fucking drink all over the place.
The carpet is soft, and I lay there numbly,
Deep in my stomach, I feel something grumbling.
I yell at the others, my eyes closed so tight,
Bring me another drink, let me forget this night.
They fight me, and tell me that I’m already too drunk,
I yell back, but from my mouth only comes funk.
The carpet before me, though spinning and blurry,
Soon becomes yellow and greeen in a hurry.
The smell of the devil and alcohol past,
Hits my face with a powerful blast.
I try to stand up, but the churning keeps on,
My stomach a war zone, the bile never gone.
The last thing I remember, is trying to stand,
I blackout again, and stay where I land.
….
When I wake in the morning, my head it does ache,
Perhaps drinking the whole bar last night was a huge mistake…
Day 5
Write a conversation about a man that dials the wrong number and encounters an angry woman. End the conversation with “Well, I suppose so.”
He is bold. She is italics
Hello, is this Marina?
You called a number and you don’t know who it is?!
So, this isn’t Marina?
What gave that one away, genius?! You have the wrong number!
Well then who is this?
That is none of your damn business! Don’t be trying to hit on me just because you can’t find Marina!
Sorry. I met this cute girl at the bar last night and she wrote her number on my bar napkin, but it got smudged in my pocket. I was really hoping this was the right number
How the hell is that my problem? You have the wrong number. Hang up the damn phone!
Are you sure Marina isn’t there? I swear this last digit is a five.
Marina? Hmmmm, let me check…NOOO! Hang up the phone you weirdo!
Well, I suppose you’re right
I’m right? I’m right?!
I suppose so. Have a good day ma’am.
Day 4
Write something based on the next line of dialogue you hear.
Dinner didn’t help.
They were fighting again, and it was starting to become more of a daily occurrence. They both knew that fighting wasn’t the answer, and they resolved to stop fighting, but within a few hours, either one or both of them had found something to fight about again.
They had been together for nearly 5 years, but the fights didn’t really start until they moved in together. He was sure the neighbors loved their 2 a.m. fights about blanket stealing, or their 7 a.m. fights about hot water usage. She frankly didn’t give a damn about any of it.
Then that morning, everything changed. Instead of fighting before work, arguing about the smallest things, it was quiet. Barely a word was spoken between the two of them, and it felt strange to him. Then, before she left, she spoke.
“I want to break up.”
He was too stunned to say anything, so he just stood there in silence, the door to the apartment still open, him in nothing but his boxers, the open carton of milk in his free hand. In an instant, it was as if his world, all he knew, was coming to an end.
It was then that he resolved to keep her, even if they were fighting a lot lately. Her favorite thing, when they were first dating, was to make dinner together. He was going to save their relationship, and they were going to get a decent meal out of it.
Once he had regained his bearings, and enough sense to close the front door, he called into work. Missing one day to repair what she thought was broken would definitely be worth it. It would give him enough time to clean up the apartment and do everything to help her, help them remember the good times together.
By the time she got home, he had nearly everything prepared. He was showered and dressed, had the ingredients prepared. They were going to make her favorite, and he hoped it would make her smile.
She wasn’t smiling at first, but he hoped he could change that. He put her on her favorite part of the preparation, and things were quiet for a while, and then they both opened up. By the time the meal was put in the oven, they were laughing together, like old times.
By the time it was ready to eat, he was feeling pretty confident in his wooing abilities. He was getting comfortable with their status, but somehow not quite comfortable enough. Something was still off, but he decided to let it slide. Their months and months of discord could not be solved in one night.
When their plates were both cleared, and he was just about to suggest dessert at the place where they had first had dessert, she pushed her chair away from the table and sighed.
“Dinner didn’t help.”
And his world came crashing down yet again.
Day 3
Write a 15 step list titled “How to be _____”
How to be Tattooed
1. Decide you like to look at art on all canvases.
2. Decide you want to be art
3. Research how to care for tattoos and keep them looking nice.
4. Research images for your tattoo.
5. Find an image you would like on your body.
6. Research styles of tattoo art or ask around for ideas.
7. Research tattoo artists and pricing.
8. Meet your artist and schedule an appointment
9. Take care of your skin between the time you schedule and your appointment
10. During your appointment- find a comfortable position
11. Relax and breathe through the pain- it varies depending on the body part tattooed.
12. Pay and tip your tattoo artist
13. Keep the wrap on for a few hours and then clean and lotion your new tattoo.
14. Lotion your tattoo, especially during the healing and peeling process.
15. Repeat steps 5-14 until you are tattooed enough to your liking.
*Touch ups to color or lines may be required
Day 2
Write a piece based on the colors of the walls of the room you are in.
\
The bouquet he gave her was, if nothing else, creative. The purples and the oranges of the flowers, mixed with the yellow of the ribbon were not the colors she had ever seen in a bouquet before. Still it was the thought that counts.
“Thank you, Timmy” She said, “but I’m allergic.” She gave him a sweet smile. “Go give them to your mom, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” She handed him his backpack and sent him toward the bus with a wave.
Day 1
Put your music player on shuffle. Using the first song that comes up, write something inspired by the first and last lines of the song.
The first song that came up was Slow Love Slow by Nightwish.
The first line: Come and share this painting with me
The last line: Slow, love, slow, only the weak are not lonely
This woman is going to be the death of me! Weeks ago, at the suggestion of my wife, I hired this 20-something to help care for the paintings, lead some of the tours during the day, and when times were hard, to guard the paintings at night. I argued that I could do it all myself, that I’m only 59 years young. She was hired before I knew it.
I was sure my wife of 30 years had never met her. If she had, she never would have hired her. My wife knew my weakness for pretty red heads, for she was a redhead herself. While my wife’s red hair had turned a more faded orange with age, the new hire’s was a bright vibrant red that, when set against her pale freckled skin, made her absolutely glow. Even in the low lighting of the museum at night, I had no trouble spotting her. Her long red hair cascading down her back as she stood facing La Pieta.
“You needed me, Amy?” I said, no pretense, no manners. Contrary to popular belief, the museum was not as hospitable at night, and my warm bed still won out. I had warned her to only call if there was a real emergency, especially if she was on the night shift, so I hadn’t even thought to dress in more than just a jacket over my pajamas and my slippers.
She turned with an excited smile as soon as she heard my voice. “Come and share this painting with me” she said, and I knew it wasn’t a real emergency. I did wonder why she decided to pull her stunt that night though. She had already been working at the museum for nearly a month and had the time to see all the paintings that lined the halls several times.
It was as if God knew I was struggling, and he put her there that night to test me. In her low-cut top, barely even covered by her imitation bomber jacket, and a thin scarf that called attention to her chest, it was a test I would surely fail. One of the first things I had noticed when she first came from the agency was her affinity for tight pants. That night was no exception. She was going to be the death of me, in career, life and marriage. Still, I stood next to her, in front of the painting, more focused on the painting than her. Perhaps if I could resist her temptations and do as she asked, I wouldn’t have to sin.
Most importantly, I wouldn’t anger my wife. The painting was as it always had been. As one of my favorites, I had stood in front of it, admiring the beauty, the colors, the forms, and all the symbolism within it. In it, Jesus was a broken man, yet the artist had painted him as if he was just sleeping. The stigmata were not forefront in the painting. It was the rare moment caught after all of the crowds had left and the Romans had thought him dead for good. I kept my eyes on that rather than my pretty, young assistant to remind me of all the good that had come from my life so far. Also to remind me how quick it could be all taken away.
“I love this piece,” She spoke and I could feel her eyes on me rather than the painting, “You can just feel the suffering from Mary and Jesus and yet there’s this sense of relief.” I willed myself not to look at her, but to focus on the colors in the painting, the blues, and the faded reds and oranges. The same oranges that if I squinted reminded me of my wife’s beautiful hair. “Maybe that’s why your wife asked me to meet you here.”
I knew I had to look at her then. Why would my wife ask her to do such a thing? It made no sense. Why would my wife set up a meeting between me and my assistant and not just tell me about it? Why all the secrecy? She was no longer smiling and her face was drawn in a serious line. There was no way this was all a prank.
I knew I had to say something, but she spoke first. “Do you know why your wife hired me?” She asked, her eyes not leaving my face. Even in the dim light of the museum, she could see my doubts, and I knew she was about to ease them. I shook my head and she continued to speak, her voice hushed, “She knows you have an attraction to red heads. She thought it would be easier if you had an attractive assistant.”
My mind was whirring, but I managed to focus on the events of the evening and not my anxious thoughts. “What would be easier?” I finally asked, unsure just what was going on. My tired brain struggling to grasp the gravity of everything. If my wife and my new assistant wanted to confuse me, shaking me out of slumber at two in the morning was the way to do it.
She took a deep breath, and seemed to struggle against the words leaving her mouth. “Rupert,” She said gently, the only word that freely escaped her lips, “Your wife was diagnosed with cancer months ago.” As soon as she said the words, it was like she wanted to pull them all back in. “That was why she hired me.” She continued, trying to ease the shock, “She knew if your attentions were drawn elsewhere, you wouldn’t notice her suffering.”
I just continued to stare at her. My mind was still trying to break down the information it had just received. How could I not notice that my wife had had cancer for months? How could I not have seen the changes? In an instant, it clicked. “Why am I here?” I asked her, nearly scared to death for her answer.
“Did you kiss your wife goodbye before you left?” She asked, her face still drawn tight, no emotion getting through without her permission first. I nodded slowly, still thinking about the question and the relevance. Then all at once it seem to click. And she answered my thoughts or so it seemed. “She didn’t want to lose her hair and seem unattractive to you.” She explained. “She wanted you to remember her as she was, not what she would become.” She explained.
And I just ran. I ran to my car, and I raced home to my wife, only to find the flashing lights of police cars, and ambulances waiting for me. The white sheet covered gurney being wheeled down my front walk way, directly toward where I stood.
The Song is here
Good Luck if you’re joining me for this challenge! I look forward to seeing your posts too!