I did it! I wrote two stories instead of one. I am not super excited by either of them, but this is a learning process. Go to Raven's blog to see the other folks' offerings – in general they're more talented than I am (you must check out Argent's Harold series).
The mini: eeeeek a mouse!, span, spurn, choose me, geese
Through the window I see the geese form an imperfect V in the sky – they're missing one to make it even. I'm lost in thought, imagining the fate of the missing goose. In my sadness I forget my mantra: pleasedon'tchoosemepleasedon'tchooseme – and I get picked for the game. I notice that I was only picked because I was the last one left. Most of the other players know my "skill" and spurn me. Sigh. Why can't I be left alone with my books? I wonder, if I screeched, "eeeeek a mouse!" could I sneak out the back door? I'd probably just get pulled back. Sigh. I look at the span of time before me – how much longer until I can steer clear of these games forever? Let's see, my daughter is 6. So, that's another 5 years of elementary school. Triple sighing, I say, "Why yes, I accept my nomination for the position of Home Room Parent Coordinator."
The 10-word: ear phones, sleeping, honest to goodness, lawn mower, cinnamon, matches, antibiotics, congregation, flower pot, cheese
I am ear phone incompetent – how do you keep those ones on little wires in your ears? I need some honest to goodness actual headphones instead. Disgusted, I toss them into the flower pot just inside the front door – the one with keys, matches & twist ties, not the one with an actual flower in it. I've just finished doing my biweekly dance with the lawn mower (I wish it would learn to let me lead!) and I'm feeling peckish. One brown sugar cinnamon pop tart with melted cheese later and I feel somewhat human again.
Checking the messages, I see one from my doctor's office. I've been having trouble sleeping. Every night there's a whole congregation of people in my head having a conversation – that doesn't include me. They talk around me, not to me. Some nights it's about how I should have stood up for myself at work. Other nights it's about why I think a brown sugar cinnamon pop tart with melted cheese is a good snack. These people are making me crazy. I'm hoping an antibiotic will do the trick.
The message from the doctor is short & to the point: "Ms. Bug, after reviewing your tests I have come to the conclusion that you are not physically ill. But I believe you would benefit from therapy. Here's the number of a competent therapist…"
I look around my empty house, filled with whispers. Filled. With whispers. Not in my head. In the house.
I pick up the phone and dial a local priest. I think that now I know how to get a good night's sleep.
P.S. For those who read my post about my dream Tuesday night – be careful what you wish for. I had a doozey of a dream last night & I remember every minute of it. And no I'm not going to tell you about it. Some surreal landscapes are best explored alone.