#GBE2: Upset

Today's GBE2 topic is "upset," which if not done correctly could be a downer. Not feeling like posting a blah-blah-life-sucks piece, I present you with excerpts from three of my unpublished novels.

No real people have been harmed in the writing of these stories.

Hope you have a laugh!

From: Don't Eat the Chipmunks by Joyce P. Lansky
 

      Last night, me and the guys tiptoed to Adam’s bunk where his chlorine-bleached hair spread across his pillow in a do like a dead chia pet's. We played dot to dot with his freckles--just in case he wasn't dorky enough already. When he got up, the kid scrubbed his face pink but still looked like a road map.

 

Was Adam upset? Of course not because I didn't write him that way.

 

From: Being Bompsy Carleffa by Joyce P. Lansky

            Gil placed tomato-based soup in front of each of us. When I blew and sipped it off my spoon, I was shocked. Cold soup? All this money, and these people can't heat the soup?

            “Do you like the gazpacho?” Fiso asked. 

             I dropped my spoon on the table. Why would he mention the Gestapo? What was he, a modern day Nazi? Sure, doesn't everyone like murderers? Sick. This guy's really sick! 

 

Yes! Ben was upset, but he stays upset throughout the novel. What do you expect? His dead dad turned out to be an alive mobster who has kidnapped him.

 

And finally, in case you haven't read enough, here's a little something from my WIP (Work in Progress).

 

From: Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts by Joyce P. Lansky

 

Slater’s mom pulled a chisel-shaped knife out of the top drawer and leaned her head back. With the precision of a surgeon, she gently slid the blade downward until it disappeared into her throat. Next she thrust it out with one gigantic swing. Blood covered the blade while red liquid filled her mouth. Her eyes rounded as her lips curved into a smug smile. She winked at me! Blood gushed out of her mouth, and she winked! While the room spun in oval circles, I couldn’t decide if she was crazy or if I needed the loony bin.

When a thick, red droplet dribbled down her chin, I squeezed the back of a chair and stepped backwards. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I worried that I might hurl at any moment.

“You’re b-bleeding.” I gripped the chair with my other hand too until my knuckles went as white as Mom’s had when she drove me home after I’d gotten in trouble the other day. “Hospital. We need to t-take you to the h-hospital!”

Slater, Calfie, and Mrs. Slatker laughed so hard tears filled their eyes.

“What are you laughing at? I think she’s really hurt!” I plopped into a chair, put my elbow on the table, and leaned my head into my palm. “I don’t feel so good.”

“It’s fake, Knob,” Slater said in between chuckles. “She squirted fake blood in her mouth!”

“The blade’s fake too.” Mrs. Slatker placed the knife on the table then wiped her mouth with a paper towel. The knife had a squeezable handle and juice filled holes on the blade. “Sorry to scare you, but we like our little jokes around here.

If you are an interested agent or editor, feel free to contact me.

Silly Sunday: The News

I see dead people.

It's Silly Sunday, which means I can post an old joke or for something more stupid, open a newspaper. I choose the latter.

Did you catch the story about Jerry Miller, the retired drill sergeant who the government killed four times? A veteran in Florida was denied pension because, get this, he died! Furthermore, he was asked to repay some $94,000 worth of benefits that he should not have received because he's dead. Miller asked his congressman to help him, but so far, being alive has not been sufficient proof that he is not dead. That makes sense. Look at zombies. They're dead and it doesn't keep them from hobbling around. Some of them even dance.

This story reminded me of my friend Al at the University of Missouri. The school mixed up his student number with that of a dead guy. To make matters worse, they mailed a sorry-about-the-death-of-your-son letter to his mom and cut off his student ID which allowed him his meals. Al marched into the administrative office, flung his arm forward and said, "I'm alive! Feel my pulse." Unlike today's morons, the college believed him.

None the less, calling someone dead who isn't could be worse. Get this:

Doctors and nurses at Pelonomi Hospital in Cape Town, South Africa were baffled when two patients died on consecutive Friday mornings in the same bed.

Checks revealed no bacterial infection, virus or problems with the air conditioning, temperature, cleanliness, nor circulation of air in buildings and rooms; but, interviews with staff revealed the shocking truth.

Each Friday a cleaning lady would go onto the ward and plug her floor polisher into a socket by the bed.

When finished, she would unplug the cleaning machine and replace the plug that was originally in the socket - the life support equipment.

It's okay to laugh. 

Snopes says that the last news story is FALSE.

Writer's Post: Accidents

This week's writer's post topic is on accidents. How fun is that! It brings back all sorts of wonderful memories about my childhood.

Hey, Boo Boo!

When I was a little girl, my daddy called me his "Little Boo Boo." I'm not sure why, since we never stole any pic-a-nic baskets, and it's not like I messed up too much... okay, I confess, my bother called me, "Miss Breaker," but pul-lease. I'm not the only one in the family to have accidents. I didn't crash a bicycle built for two on the horse trail in French Lick, Indiana, nor did I back into the dishwasher to emerge with a big freakin' knife hanging out of my booty. That was someone else in the family.

I'm also not to blame when the old neighbor crashed his bike on the side of the road. I was maybe eight years old and carefully looping my wheels around the neighborhood when I happened to pass an old guy––probably younger than I am now, but old to me––wobbling back and forth on a tiny bike made for his kid. He obviously never learned how to ride a bike, since "they" say one never forgets. 

Anyway, I spun past him, minding my own business and the dude crashes! I didn't push him. I didn't veer into him. In fact, I wasn't anywhere near him; however, his old biddy wife comes pounding the door screaming at how I caused her sweetheart's accident.

How could anyone as cute as I was cause trouble?

Anyone who grew up with me knows I was just the type to grit my teeth and plunge into old guys on undersized bikes just for kicks. No, Mr., that was your kid! Remember, him? He used to dig holes in the park, cover them with leaves, and wait behind a tree, so he could laugh at seeing "someone" have an "accident." I'm surprised he didn't have an accident in his pants the day the scary sixth grade teacher picked him up hitch hiking. I know I would have. Accidents. Yeah, right!