It was a huge “red flag”! Jen had just overheard her 13 year old son say. ” I shouldn’t say because I have “white privilege.”. WHAT? He was responding to a teacher in one of his remote online classes. She hadn’t ever discussed that concept with him so she immediately wondered where that insane comment came from? Jen worked her way over to his desk and listened to the lesson. It was an online gym class. Yes, there is such a thing. The instructor held two photos: one of a poor black inner city kid and one of a well -dressed white male with a suburban background. His next question to the Zoom class was now audible. “Now, are you sure that you understand “institutional racism”?”. Jen felt her face flush with anger. Her son, with a look of horror, tried to bat her hand away from the unmute button. “Excuse me? What are you filling my son’s head with and WHAT does that have to do with gym class?!” The stunned instructor didn’t answer at first. After an awkward pause, he replied, ” It’s what I have been instructed to do. No offense. We think this is important.” “WE?! Who is this “we”? “The state education board ma’am. They create the curriculum.” The next day, Jen took her son to the local gym. There, he had an actual gym class. Followed by a history, math, and writing exercise approved by the supreme filter of a social, moral, and truthful education… a homeschooling parent. The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Feb. 6, 2021 | (lindaghill.com)
People who write novels must have far more focus or patience than I. Perhaps, there’s an ADHD that affects writers?
For example, my Random Word Stories are delightfully fun to write. But, they end up being book jacket versions of novels that I’d enjoy reading, nothing more. You’d think if I embraced them as beginnings, I’d have a wealth of inspiration for a novel. Instead, I lose interest in the longer intricate version. Like the kid in a candy shop, off I go in search of new sweet flavors to sample.
I enjoy writing poems and short stories. They get to the point. I like that. Every word counts. Don’t get me wrong. A well-written novel is a beautiful experience. I just don’t believe that I have the self-discipline to accomplish writing one.
My favorite novel is the Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury. It’s a bunch of short stories crocheted together. Ah… a collection of short stories is “like a box of chocolates” in my opinion. Certainly, dismissing the novel writing idea, completely, isn’t going to happen. But following my aptitude and “attention deficit” trait seems the better use of my creative energy. A collection of short stories may be the answer for me.
Have you struggled with similar thoughts? Is blogging merely enough? 😉
When you were five years old, who was your hero? What do you think of that person today?
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When I was five years old, Zorro (portrayed by Guy Williams) was my hero. He was a “righter”of injustices and defender of the weak.
I chose to write on this topic because I felt, Zorro, might be a controversial choice of a modern 5-year-old.
Primarily, the complaints would come from those who dislike the idea of violent images offered to our kids. Parents cringe about “armed” heroes, yet, I believe they are missing the message and ought to consider the moral fiber of fictional (and real life heroes ) with, as much, immediate concern. My former blog post “The Blind Eye”, was about apathy and fear in the face of trouble. This topic seems a fitting continuation of my point.
My heart still quickens at the thought of “Zorro to the rescue” and I really have no memory of him ever hurting anyone. He may have…but, my 5-year-old self certainly did not internalize the violence at all. What I remember most is that people “with power” can be good or evil and the good one’s are heroic only when they take action and risks. Zorro was also labeled a “public enemy” by those “evil” powerful folks who feared his interference in their corrupt and greedy agendas.
I believe that the pen is truly “mightier than the sword” and Zorro, if transported to 2014, would probably be a political blogger. A mighty dashing one, at that! lol
More than any time, ever before, there are medias that allow us to “take a stand” and to expose corruption. Fear of labels, cannot hold the bravest of us back, either. Touche’!
I found Charlie Rainwater sitting cross-legged in an adobe hut. A single gray braid hung like a pet snake over his shoulder which nearly reached the dirt floor. He was ancient and when his milky eyes lifted at the sound of me, I could tell he was blind.
The only visible modern convenience was a portable AM radio which had a dancing red light but no sound. He’d summoned me through the mail. Apparently, he was a big fan of my morning radio talk show and had instructed one of his 22 great-grandchildren to drop me a note. Charlie could not read or write but he was up to date on the issues.
When he lifted his hand in greeting, I expected a deep voice filled with “ughs” and TV injun-style moans. To my surprise, he chuckled and a boisterous high-pitched “Howdy David, Thanks for cummin’!”, slapped me in the face.
Our interview started immediately.
“Didn’t think I had, Ellen’s chance at guest speaker for a convention of homophobes, to get you here Davy. Welcome.”
“It’s fine to be here sir. I’m glad to have the opportunity for this interview. Never expected this.”
“Well, betcha never thought a Hawaiian would be president neither. Goes to show ya, anything can happen nowadays!” Charlie lifted his chin and laughed. “Now drop that sir crap en call me Chuck won’t cha?”
“Alright, Chuck. You seem well informed. You mentioned, in the note, that you have a message for me. I’m anxious to hear about it.”
“Straight to the point, Davy. There aren’t enough points gotten to in the politics. Heck, a hexagram has six but politicians are smooth, too smooth, my boy. They are just plain menaces when it comes to makin’ THE point.” Charlie looked up toward the ceiling and sighed. “I like your show and I wanted to tell you that you ask the right questions, you’re honest and care about things. BUT, There’s much for you to learn about what my grandfather called, Shiftings and Siftings.”
“Yes Chuck, I have one heck of a time getting to the facts, for sure. I appreciate your interest.”
“Ever tried to nail an eel to a tree Davy? Slimy devils. The trick is finding the right grip. If you’re wearin’ a glove it won’t work t’all. All those other interview shows wear gloves. Slimy gloves make it too easy for the eel to shift and git away. What we need are more bare handed interviewers like you. Grip them eels ’til you can sift out that truth, boy!”
“Fine wisdom sir. I’m honored and I won’t forget that.”
“Oh yeah, one more thing Davy, don’t never try to nail an eel to a tree. It ain’t kind and serves no purpose. I step on ’em myself.” With that Chuck’s chin dropped to his chest. Moments later he was asleep.
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“Good morning Nevada! This is David Sands on Talk 105. A special thanks to my new friend Chuck Rainwater. My guest today is our mayor who intends to ban pee-wee football, sugary soft drinks and fun in general… welcome to the first segment of “Git a Grip and Watch Your Step”…
English: Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth President of the United States. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Random words generated by randomwordgenerator.net
wordplay…scrubland…kinswoman…pill…irratatingly
Here’s my story:
It’s a common occurrence in families. Doctors come from a long line of doctors…teachers seem to be generated within blood lines too. So when Jillian decided to become a water witch she suspected that she was the “fly in the ointment” of her scientific family.
Jillian spent her Thanksgiving reunion in a silent fuddle. Her Dad, the physicist, tipped his head toward her with a raised eyebrow and asked, “So how are those studies going?” He emphasized studies in a way that she was familiar. He could irritatingly infer that she was a kook even when his interest seemed genuine. No one else had been informed of her career choice so the introduction of the subject stung a bit.
She’d spent 6 months in a desert scrubland with no positive results and was beginning to question her skills and whether or not she just might fit the kook label after all. Failure was a hard pill to swallow in her family, especially hard for a deviant from science like herself. She had a dozen successes under her belt. That certainly wasn’t a shabby record. Jillian had stepped in when “scientists” had failed more than once.
Dowsers use divining rods attempting to find water. The practice was ancient and had saved many a farm from dust and despair. Not knowing every reason for a practice certainly cannot preclude it from being scientific. Jillian stiffened her posture.
Dad continued to poke fun, “Jillian, dear, it would be divine if you’d pass the gravy.”
With that, Jillian decided to “come out of her mystic closet”. Dad’s wordplay was getting to her, big time. Suddenly her shame was from hiding her beloved profession.
“So, has everyone heard about my studies? I’m a water witch. A darn good one too!”
Heads lifted. Aunt Barbara condescendingly snickered into her napkin while cousin Frank, the legally blind entomologist, squinted at her through “coke-bottle” glasses. Jillian had always wondered why he didn’t study BIG creatures. What a joke!
Great-grandmother was the only accepting face at the table. She was also the only one who spoke.
“It appears you have a tough crowd to please, Jilly. I’ll bet they don’t know about a fine kinswoman who made her life as a dowser. My great-grandmother worked for Abraham Lincoln himself don’t ya know. She’d be so very proud.”
Every face fell.
Jillian felt redeemed and raised an eyebrow directly at her father.
There was nothing Mia could do once the agreement was signed. She needed a roommate and Holt was the only one who had answered her ad. So she overlooked his testy attitude which was a big mistake.
Holt had answered her invitation with questions galore. Some like, “Would he have bathroom access between 6:00 and 7:00 am?” were understandable. Asking her not to ever chew bubblegum, in his company, was bizarre. But, his references checked out and were stunning, to say the least. Even his credit score, which he should have embossed on a medallion and worn on a chain, was as close to perfect as she’d ever seen. Mia worked, afternoons and evenings, at a savings and loan and she was impressed. His testiness could be overlooked in favor of paying the rent on time. Mia was hopeful for the weight of debt to be lifted.
As Holt set up his basement abode, his tidy nature served as a refresher course in organized behavior. Everything had its place and she found his labels, which of course he laminates, quite efficient. Holt was going to be a life saver.
He hadn’t even cared that the basement was dark. He assured her that he could adequately light it with fragrant candles and a bare 25 watt bulb.
Months went by and Mia never saw Holt, never heard him either, but she was very happy to discover his rent money placed in her mailbox with a laminated note, FOR RENT, on the first of each month.
When she received her Amazon purchase wrapped in many layers of bubble wrap, Holt was the furthest thing from her mind. With a child-like grin she playfully stomped the heck out it beneath her shoe.
“Pop, padda, pop,pop!”
Seconds later, Holt burst through her door carrying an assault rifle. His eyes were wild and his attitude was, well, the testiest! Mia dove for the floor as he sprayed her apartment with bullets until all that remained was the clicking of an empty magazine.
Within minutes, police surrounded her building and extracted a blubbering heap once known as Holt. Mia would be nauseated and light-headed for days.
It was three months before she recovered. The accumulation of new debt was enough for her to try out a new roommate. This time, she presented the prospect with her own questionnaire. The woman read and answered every question, then giggled, “What does bubblegum have to do with anything?”
Since so many other online writers have blogs dedicated to their writings, I’ve decided to jump onto the bandwagon. All posts published here will be either fiction or poetry, some new, and some previously published on various places on the Internet. Some of my works are conventional, and some are quirky. All fiction posted here, except for fan fiction, will include the letters "rose" somewhere, as a tribute to my Baba.
Sillyfrog's Blog 