Archive for I Wrote It
November 16, 2008 at 12:15 am · Filed under I Wrote It
Today was the 2nd best day I’ve had writing my November National Novel Writing Month Novel. I completed one in 2002, I’ve attempted one in the middle somewhere (2005?) but came up short b/c i was too busy.
in 2002 I interviewed the founder Chris Baty and a couple of community liaisons, took notes but never published the result. I still have the notes and a little retrospective at some piont would be fun.
This time around I’ve been struggling but i have lived my mantra for life adopted this year - Kepp Going - and, though I haven’t written every day, though I am behind in the count goal of 50,000 words in 30 days, I’m doing it.
And today, made it really fun again as I plowed through a quick-passing 90 minutes of writing with a very cool idea. The person writing is a victim of the memoirists of the book. The sick, twisted, violent - smart - memoirists.And it fairly tripped off my keys with coherency rather than a lingering feeling of scattered, shattered thoughts that will need to be worked on.
All this work has coincided with just being tired when i get home from work, not having a really good place to sit and type, with posture in relaxed yet rigid repose and, as mentioned, not feeling I’m doing well on coherency …
So much has this taken over that I was shocked to discover earlier today that the last time i updated this blog was Oct. 29 with the delicious, yet evocative quote below.
Now in between I have dropped a little blog love over on Joan’s Dagoddess blog - and written about NaNoWrimo there as well. i felt it was a disservice to just copy that over here but I think I will since it highlights my 1st “good day” of writing.
so over the fold is a couple of excerpts from today - the guy writing is captive as he writes. Then the second is a courtroom scene of an early trial of one of the stories main protagonists. It touches on Brad jones’ cleverness, his early manipulative nature and his long-term planning of the depraved. it also doubles as a brief treatise on the power of thought and imagination over and above actions.
Today, a captive writes,guardedly:
Sweet, lovely, un-trained people imagine and live vicariosly through the darknesses within others. it has to be a kind of balance. To use a color theory example, such darknesses make the brights brighter. For such SLuTs, a broader range of experience, of color, on average, will neutralize the extremes.
But much like looking down a well, these people remain in the light and remain perfectly safe unless they should fall - or, of course, if they are pushed into the darkness.
am of course, grateful that i am not dead, that i have not been wounded, that nothing has happened to me at all. Obviously I was a targeted kidnapping. But i have been scarred and should i escape i think suicide would be the best option. That i can type that without hesitation speaks to how i have changed, how the physics of evil have swirled my innards. I have so much more knowledge inside - yet i feel emptier
The courtroom closing arguments surrounding Brad Jones’ first big trial:
Chapter 2
‘You say I only hear what I want to, And you say I talk so all the time’ - Stay, Lisa Loeb
*** *** ***
“What has been presented in this case is a specious argument from the prosecution, your honor.”
Mind crimes have been fought for centuries. People being prosecuted, executed hung and quartered, boiled, tortured, devices created - The Iron Maiden impaled anyone inside — all because others supposedly had horrible thoughts not fit for society. Are we more primitive now or less?
Pause a moment there … It’s all ridiculous, of course ladies and gentlemen.
Stephen King is a family man, a well respected member of society in Maine. Yet he once wrote about a maid who licked cum off beds as she cleaned rooms. I’m sorry but I needed to express the moment. Stephen King wrote about so much more. Quentin Tarantino made films about anal rape and celebrating violence. He is well-regarded.
Steven Spielberg has killed hundreds of people. That would be a worldwide headline - but why isn’t it? Ask yourself.
Barbara Cartland filled pages upon pages and a whole career with sex and sexual suggestion. Lady Barbara Cartland. So many people who have come to be respected have had horrible, impolite or impolitic thoughts. Society would like to think this is in spite of their expression but we all know that’s not true.
You’ve taught your children to be honest and truthful at all times. When in doubt, we’ve told them that truth is best. In those conversations that come as we tuck them in after reading them fantastical stories with cautionary endings, we’ve told them that truth is best. Yet somewhere along the way we put limitations on not only what we should do but on honesty of thought, as well.
It’s something to think about ladies and gentlemen, isn’t it? But be careful what you think, right?
We respect men and women who we feel are direct and honest. The salesperson who’s not too slick; the bank manager who cuts you a break - and understands you and your predicament. You judge their character based on how much you feel they’ve been honest with you. Is not love, too, created through understanding?
Here’s the problem. Somewhere along the way we stop being honest with ourselves. We read books, we listen to music, we watch films, we relax in front of the TV and what are we trying to do? Escape. Escape from what? I would submit, you men, you women, that it’s from the brutal honesty we don’t want to face within ourselves.
Brad is you. He’s the judge. He is me. And you can bet he’s the prosecution. Brad Jones has not, however, acted. And none of this “thought” is new, it’s just that society has become more honest with itself. A revelation is not the same as a celebration. Suppression is no longer an excuse for outward violence on others. Should we all be in jail when we think, ‘I wanna kill her! I want to kill him!’
Thought is not the same as action. That’s what you have to remember in this case. Brad has not done anything.”
Judge Harrison groaned inside as the attorney started, though happy he was not, this time, the one making the decision. A judge was stuck when this argument came. Usually it was not as well presented but still, the decision developed new layers of complication. If he found the person not guilty, people would wonder just what was in and on the judge’s mind. If he found the person guilty, well, people would criticize him for failing to understand freedom or upholding the Constitution. This group was by definition much smaller, as the attorney had said, so guilty was the word that proceeded the smash of his gavel, however cowardly that word came to his lips.
Of course, he had thoughts he didn’t want others to know about. They came unbidden, many from deep down yet he recognized them as shallow. The question for him was always whether those hidden thoughts were merely part of a greater whole or whether they completely defined the person.
Brad loved a secret. The attorney’s flaw was not necessarily one of reason. Logically, he made a strong case. Yet, it did not encompass all the facts. The obvious ones. He had acted. If ignorance of that fact, ruled the day, so be it, it was not being ruled on today. Not specifically. He loved legal specificity, he respected the semantics and the verbal antics to step up just to the point of a line and stop. Cold.
“Your honor. Ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Sawyer, as his job requires him to do, has misled you. People make films and music. They write books. They paint or sculpt art. These are verbs, therefore they are actions. Thought is no such abstraction when it manifests itself into something concrete. Your client has made people uncomfortable through action. He has continued even after he was told to stop. That’s harassment. That’s stalking. That’s a crime, which we can all understand needs to be curtailed.
Brad Jones is guilty of that crime. Two men have told us, in this courtroom, that Brad Jones made advances toward them, that for five months he always seemed to be near them, no matter whether they were getting out of their car, grocery shopping, walking in the park, at the gym or in restaurant bathrooms.
It was in one of these bathrooms that one of them found a small notebook, which fell out of Brad Jones pocket near one of the urinals. In it were descriptions so foul I could only read short passages. They were violent, they were graphically sexual, and they showed intent to do great bodily harm in ways we don’t even want to think about.
Just because these actions were set on a different planet, does not isolate them from this one, and this country of laws. Brad Jones is guilty of stalking harassment and he needs to be taught a lesson in this courtroom, today.
Thank you.”
After it was all over, Brad was indeed found guilty of harassment but hardly of stalking. And it was telephone harassment, the kind conducted every day across the country and across the out-sorucing capitals of the world. Persistence it would seem would be the better word.
That had been eight years ago. He had been 19, a time when anything could be put down to youthful indescretion.
October 29, 2008 at 5:20 am · Filed under I Wrote It, Quote
“It’s obvious to everyone, you’re about to come undone, playing hard to get is hard to do when you’re wet. …”
- Me, inspired by .. not telling
October 15, 2008 at 2:19 am · Filed under Family & Friends & Me, I Wrote It
However, faintly
If I tell you you’re good at that
You’ll stop being good at that
You’ll think what has already come effortlessly
will continue to do so
naturally
Instead, self-consciously, you’ll continue
Doing what you do best - or used to
And ruination by exclamation
And saturated exhortation
That’s damnation
October 15, 2008 at 1:56 am · Filed under I Wrote It, Site News
Ten days ago I visited you
With a spark of life
Or two
But then I withdrew, you knew
As I am wont to do
And I’m overdue
That library card I so artlessly obtained
Is gone now, lost now
Buried heap
Still, know I won’t be long contained
I’ll write, I’ll fight
But, sleep
September 14, 2008 at 8:25 pm · Filed under Family & Friends & Me, I Wrote It
I’m a writer and I’ve written my fair share of love letters. Reading many of them again, there’s an air of wishful and wistful rather than sensual or sophistication. Partly that’s because as opposed top fiction it’s real life and I’m big on everyday appreciation and showing it in a variety of subtle and overt ways.
I think perhaps, my impressions are colored by knowing the relationships didn’t work out, and I’ve just colored your reading of this, which isn’t and wasn’t a love letter at all. In fact, this could be characterized more as a letter along the lines of, I’m pretty sure this isn’t working but damn I’m curious as to why because you’ve never actually told me.
Before I finish crumpling up this first page and tossing it away, here’s this, circa late 1997. It’s to a person who I was long term friends with and still am. During a summer we also had sex and slept together, often:
XXYYXXYY,
The very first thing I want to do with this letter is express my apology and regret for whatever words of description I put together which caused you such discomfort.
In thinking of that lapse moment a chill runs up my back. Words are powerful and I can’t even think of pushing you away by using them carelessly.
I don’t remember what I wrote, but I am sure I had no intention of provoking disapproval. With that in mind I obviously made a misjudgment. I am very sorry and I hope it is a mistake small in measure compared to the activity of other people who have let you down. The rest of this letter is formed around this idea of how I could make that and other errors of judgment.
(DEEP BREATH)
By leaps and bounds I increasingly realize the planes of your personality and character which my efforts thus far have yet to harvest. In other words you are a woman who has a mind working overtime.
I am not yet as close as I thought to uncovering and understanding the creative reasoning behind your actions, reactions and decisions. Often there is contradiction, of which you have said you are sometimes aware.
For example, you want to arrive back in America and would be willing to stay at my parents’ house — but only as long as I wasn’t there. Ouch. You said this, though in a different way. Words such as these are confusing to me, sometimes pulling away, sometimes celebratory of our relationship and what I bring to it.
It is very possible to feel both of these, to be both welcoming and cautious. This I do understand. But I can’t get over this one seeming contradiction: You miss me, but you want to wait until days after you come back to see me again, to meet me.
Because, in my ignorance, I can’t quite fathom what this means, I cannot deny I was and am hurt by this. And it isn’t because I feel I am owed anything but because I do not understand what kind of threat you think I am to your independence.
It is your independence which is perhaps the single most thing I like about who you are. It epitomizes who you are, the very essence.
Whatever those xxyyyxxyyyx [a country's] men shy away from, you seem to know it is related to your strengths. They are afraid of your independence, they want someone who will do everything they ask. I believe that’s what you are saying. I want to discover more and share. The power of your search for … …
Also, this particular letter is couched in deferential language as I’m trying to elicit explanation though I don’t necessarily think the fault of any uncertainty is mine. That’s a little cringe-worthy because admitting you’re wrong is different from doing so without knowing to what wrong you’re admitting.
I suppose I’ll find the second page at some point.
September 3, 2008 at 11:11 pm · Filed under I Wrote It
PromptTuesday 20 is - your back-to-school memory:
[RULES: writing exercise, 10 minutes 250 words approx. Have fun]
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
What did I know? Big upheaval after adventures in New York and Epcot Center - the big golf ball. I had a million thoughts and yet I sat writing down in echo of the words at the front of the room, the front being about five feet away in a very small …
Fool stop.
????
Here I was in England and what did I know? The place had a queen, and they drove on the wrong side of the road and fog, thick fog greeted us as our plane landed in Heathrow, Nov. 2, 1981.
And I was …
Fool stop.
??????
And I was in Mrs. Green’s class at Normanton Preparatory School, having mere weeks ago been in a 6th grade class in Alaska at Oceanview Elementary School, having the year before learned sex education and still now deeply addicted to Hot Dog magazine.
There was no Hot Dog ’ere. There would eventually be Smash Hits magazine but …
Fool stop.
I looked up. I looked around, and no one else seemed perturbed at the teacher’s periodic exclamations. Was it me, should I stop writing? No one else was halting their fountain pens.
I was back at school but in a different country, in a completely different environment, with a bajillion questions. Back at school wearing a uniform, but not the green of the school, the lower 1st and 2nd form students, of which I was a part. Not me, not the American, who with every word stood out like a lighthouse with a blazing red shafted illumination.
No, I was wearing the blue uniform of the higher forms, which were grades, because …
Fool stop.
I was beyond exasperated and now worried. Who was this crazy woman who called people fools? I’d read Oliver, and a Christmas Carol, those completed my picture of what England was like. And now Mrs. Green, small, whippet thin and with a pinched, musty face, was calling me names.
I don’t know if it was that day, but my impressions are it took me a few days to figure it out.
Fool stop. . . . . . . . . . . See, it’s all that. And that, and this . As she spoke and we would write, she would punctuate her outpouring with the declaration - fool stop. I think I must have asked at home and I think it must have been my new dad who told me because my mom - soon to be mum (but if mum, why not dud?) - would not have known either.
Fool stop is not an exclamation but a period.
Full stop. Full. Stop. Full stop. The quite British way to say “period” at the end of a sentence. That was my introduction to being back at school, to the Queen’s English and to England, my new home. Period. Full stop.
September 1, 2008 at 7:59 pm · Filed under Family & Friends & Me, I Wrote It
I wrote the following in 2002 after I heard that a former fellow Grand Coulee volunteer firefighter and his wife were recently hit with cancer. Anne was the one who was recently diagnosed and I read about it in the paper where i started my journalism career.
Here’s what I wrote, reposting because I think it stands the test of time, otherwise I wouldn’t bother.
Cancer is limited
It does not cripple love
It does not shatter hope
It does not erase faith
It does not destroy peace
It cannot kill friendship
it cannot suppress memories
It cannot silence courage
It cannot invade the soul
It cannot conquer the spirit
When I was 15 my grandfather died of cancer. James Robert Anderson. We were in England at the time and though my mother went to her father’s funeral I could not make it, though I can’t quite recall why, now.
I wrote something, a poem, and though I cannot remember what is in it, i have a copy of it somewhere. My mother said she read it and it made everyone cry. I think she also pointed out that it was a funeral and making people cry isn’t very hard at such occasions. Still, she said, people were deeply moved. To a 15-year-old not used to moving people emotionally, in a good way that means something.
I believe, I think, perhaps I want to believe because inspiration comes in many forms, that this was the start of me wanting to write for a career. I had seen and if not felt, then understood the power of words. It was that same year, though I’d have to look specifically as to when, when I started keeping a journal. I kept that up for 9 years until I just got too busy in the last year of college. But I have recorded the transformational years.
These lines to Anne and Steve I sent to the newspaper because I didn’t know their specific address. i knew my former boss knew them and they were easy to locate, but I never did hear back.
But these words stands the test of time to my very self-critical mind.
August 26, 2008 at 6:41 am · Filed under I Wrote It
[[PROMPTuesday]]
It fell.
Or rather the egg was hurled, mightily and with great glee, if little foresight.
That’s not quite how Jeannette phrased it when she ran up the stairs to confront the egg tosser. Not in her head anyway. Due to an ill-timed trip at the top step her anger dissipated. That and the boyish grin she stared into when someone took her arm to help her up.
Early 30s, egg tosser. She’d never seen that in the classifieds, and to the best of her knowledge there was no InstantEggLove.com
Dave looked at her and winced inwardly as she looked like shit. Outwardly he offered, “I feel like shit. I’m sorry.”
In return that anything-but-bold statement got one of the strangest looks he’d ever seen. Lustful. Amused. Pathetic. Pissed. Yeah, mostly pissed. It was one of those looks usually received after months, if not years, of knowing.
So he said nothing else, because, after all, he was near the edge of the roof of his friend’s office. He’d been - and still was - waiting for Gail to finish her morning and head to lunch.
Jeannette was brushing her skirt off, though there was nothing there. She looked back and wondered what and why she had run up the stairs. She’d expected a child and had readied rightful wrath. But instead, trip and fall said it all.
She turned her back and walked away, if only to forestall the awkward silence she could already feel developing.
“Oh my god.”
Matted hair at the back, white and yellow goo on her red blouse made Dave instantly resolve to never throw eggs again. Not sure why he had today. They’d been in the refrigerator as he grabbed a soda. A compulsion that continued without thought until faced with the consequence.
His snort-laugh-gargle - what the hell was that sound? - spun her back around and she felt her hair, a sticky mess, slap her back.
Minutes later, she found herself in a store, looking at his wallet.
“Here, you’ll look bet. .um, good in this.”
And he was right. He’d just bought her clothes - with impressive acumen - and swept one shelf of hair care products; she’d spotted maybe one that she used.
Jeannette was late for where she’d been going. Now she had a new blouse on and was headed out the door. Where, on the threshold, she promptly tripped again.
“Motherfuck!”
Jeannette left with egg on her face - but he had her number.
August 16, 2008 at 11:30 am · Filed under I Wrote It, Ideas, Quote
When you take away options, stranger things happen.
That’s the quote that came at the end and the takeaway from my dream earlier this morning that ended about two minutes ago. It involved several different scenes, this dream, but ultimately it seemed to be about making a person more deperate as he was hounded and accused and victimized by the people around him, the people closest to him; except for his parents. Though even them too as he could detect they expected absolutely nothing out of him anymore except survival. And at times, they thought perhaps that too was making his life worse.
It involved a grown man being late for school and classes; but miles upon miles to walk.
This man, this person constantly assailed, nevertheless walked by both a grimy, oiled quarter on the ground, then a shinier nickel a little farther up the hill, knowing kids who walked the same path would get more joy out of the discovery.
It involved me, or someone I thought for awhile was me, sitting in a car with my laptop, the one I currently own, the one I’m currently typing into. Someone else had carried it, walking away from the house, still typing away. And the WiFi had lasted an extraordinarily long time but at the corner, it ended and the guy carrying the laptop had to turn around. But, in the nature of dreams, with seamless yet also abrupt merge, it was me, suddenly in the car, in front of a strange house, with the plug cord snaking out across the sidewalk but only because it was snagged on something in the round-top cement wall. It seemed I was doing some kind of surveillance, discovery for someone else. It felt like it was on the right side of the law, or at least the right side of justice, trying to find the truth no one else was looking for.
Trying to return someone’s options.
It involved a hippy looking guy in a nice car, a Skylark or an Oldsmobile of some kind pulling into a parking spce in front of me, only then to imediately pull out again, or start to before seeing me walk behind him. I said something mildly uncomplimentary to him, but only mildly, after all he had stopped without me having to shout.
My brother walked out of jail, with two swollen bumps on his side, near his hips. He was shirtless. There was another bump on his forehead and a cut on his lower face. Except it was my face. Except I knew it was my brother. And I knew he wanted to tell me what had happened to my glasses, which were supposed to be on his face. No, my face.
He was about 10 people back in a very narrow corridor. I, he, was about a head taller than everyone else, as we often are, and people were being released. He’d only been there overnight, or maybe a couple of days. There was only doubt, I thought in my dream, because the cuts seemed to be fresh but healed as if they had happened a little while ago. But as he walked through it was my face and he walked past me with a small smile, ready to explain but knowing now wasn’t the best place. He stopped a little farther on as I let him walk past me and seemed to either insert or take something from a column in the wall.
There was tension in the city, though I don’t know where, and something was about to happen. But then I woke up, so it didn’t.
July 29, 2008 at 6:13 pm · Filed under I Wrote It
UPDATED - At end, link to others who participated.
PROMPTuesday#15. Write about deception. Whatever that means to you. Can be fact or fiction.
He blinked. He’d heard that, right?
Tom, tired of waiting had gone across the street. At the counter now under the too-bright lights he endured the ghastly smile of the guy behind the counter. He dropped his drinks, chips, cookies, gum, energy pills, eggs (on a regretful whim), brake fluid, shriveled hot dogs, newspapers, magazines and Spanish-language CD.
The Sobe bottle clunked, which roused him out of his reverie. Self-reflective to a fault he knew he’d dropped it all absent-mindedly still thinking about the man and the woman in the cooler door corner. “I recognize him,” Tom thought. “It’s gonna bug the fuck out of me now.”
But sure as shit he wasn’t going to go over and ask him, how.
Tom turned as he fished for his wallet and the two were gone. He struggled with whether to tell the cashier but the guy gave off such an air of not giving a flying fuck, he didn’t think it would do any good. Besides, he couldn’t really afford to answer too many questions, either.
The bus stop, which had seemed the most boring place on earth to Tom’s restless mind now seemed a safe haven. He knew he had about 30 minutes. He’d blown half of that and two bags hanging from his right hand, he put his left over his belly button, his index finger stroking it though he was unaware. It was a sight spot, a way to get his bearings.
He opened his eyes deliberately wider so his eyes could adjust more quickly. He thought about the assassination plot he’d heard, and smiled. Is that the latest hot place to plan murder, because he’d never been made aware. “Assassination,” he whispered and laughed. “Who am I, Ghandi?”
Because Ghandi was killed by someone like him, a fanatic, though colder and less compassionate. “Is there someone less compassionate than me?” It was not a pointless question. Whim was not the same as whimsy and passion was not the same as compassion.”
So feeling he was facing amateurs he walked casually, looking, knowing the two would be there and wondering how they’d step into it. More importantly, when.
Read the rest of this entry »
July 15, 2008 at 10:59 pm · Filed under I Wrote It
The PROMPTuesday exercise this week is to finish the bolded part of the beginning below. I did the 10 minutes but there was much more I had in me to write so I continued, as well.
“Wait!” I screamed after her. “Your hat!”
She ignored me, which was to be expected. We hadn’t talked, not really anyway, in more than 10 years. I scooped up her black hat. The mesh veil fluttered beneath my fingers…
I’d come back to my hometown to visit my family. They had rejected me, tearfully, yes, but they had indeed said goodbye to me, my lifestyle and, seemingly my past. Given no choice, I had done the same and lived, happily but under a persistent shadow.
My parents had died two years ago, my brother and sister last year. I had only found out a couple of months ago in a conversation with an old teacher.
Deeply wounded, I blamed everyone who had blamed me - for something I couldn’t control. Speciously my anger re-ignited at the dead.
There, here again now, was pain on top of pain and I thought I would never return. But holiday weekend plans had fallen apart and I found myself booking a flight and taking off toward the blues.
Such a small town, there were only three graveyards. Having slept overnight in a quiet motel along Main Street, having been slightly afraid to go to any restaurants, not knowing how her life had been shaped by tongues in her absence or who she might meet, she stayed inside, ordering pizza and watching ghastly TV while feeling equally horrible.
The veil in her hand showed that someone close to Theresa had died and it hurt not to be able to hold her as I had before.
The veil in her hand, the material now rubbed between my fingers, was so soft, as Theresa had been and would always be.
The veil in her hand, I suddenly pulled close to my breast and without warning drenched it in streaming tears.
…
Read the rest of this entry »
July 9, 2008 at 10:53 pm · Filed under I Wrote It
As the name suggests, this is meant to be a Tuesday thing. Yesterday I said I’d do it today but then I completely forgot about it until just a few minutes ago. You know what they say …
SanDiegoMomma started this burst writing exercise and the rules are:
• You must write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kicks in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
• Keep to 250 words or less.
• Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the • writing process.
• Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.
This time Coacktail Maven was a guest hostess, who asked that we all right a very short fable, ending in a maxim.
Here’s mine this week:
“One day under a tree the rabbit reached over and grabbed a morsel from the lively box of chocolates. The tortoise, still gloating about his victory year’s ago had been nibbling at cherries in a bowl.
It had been one of a long string of the dog days of summer, filled with quick, jumping foxes. The black sheep stood far away, needing a better reason to look before she leapt.
Peter had come by earlier. He gave the wolf the evil eye and amazingly that was enough. However, most who knew him had learned to tune him out; he was the fifth wheel of any gathering.
There was always a party pooper.
Last week, had been interesting. Anime men and women had visited and stirred the pot, but too many of them had spoiled the broth while counting their chickens.
The observer of it all blinked, repeatedly and too often. Shoot first and ask questions later his tired mind repeated and his lips moved in a mantra about Manic Mondays.
After avoiding 40 winks for 40 hours, the observer needed sleep, better late than ..
| ….
~..^
July 2, 2008 at 1:39 am · Filed under I Wrote It
A quick writing experiment here, with one type of stimulus and a few rules.
Though it’s actually Wednesday now, I just saw PROMPTuesday. Is is the first one I’ve done now that my Web site is functional again without the dys. Got the idea from Da Goddess when she started doing it a few weeks back. I think it’s the brainchild of San Diego Momma.
PROMPTuesday #11 was to write a 350-word or less infomercial about the object in the photo.
My submission is about 290 words done in the alloted 10 minutes (+1 for fixing typos).
Today we have something special, a look into the future. Literally.
The Telepath is a vehicle powered by thoughts. Your thoughts.
As hard as it is to believe this blows away the Segway. The Telepath has three main parts. The handlebars are designed for getting a grip. The red button just below that is a safety release in case you start to blow your own mind. And the key to the Telepath is the white disk at the top. This only needs to be near your forehead but actual contact increases speed.
An interesting twist to Telepathic travel is that the type of thought determines your altitude. Betty here found this out by accident while testing it earlier today.
Betty: Yes, indeed and I’m rather ashamed at the turn of events. We can talk about it later. …
I contacted the company about your discovery, Betty. They said your discovery might be its best selling point. As an aside, oddly the inventor of the Telepath has mysteriously disappeared. He was last seen traveling upwards of 100 miles per hour while contemplating his own navel. Apparently he forgot about the safety valve.
If you think, say about murdering a work colleague, the Telepath crashes, right Betty? Unfortunately we did not have cameras rolling at the time.
Also, if you start to become aroused, say by accidentally rubbing against that red button, well by this time we did have cameras. Let’s see. That’s right it flies upside down.
The possibilities are endless. The price is right. Be the first in your neighborhood to get one. Who knows what you might see in upper-floor windows. But watch what you think.
The Telepath is not recommended for politicians by the way. It’d be a non-starter.
–30–
