Announcement: Rest Week & Drumming Cats

There comes a point in time in every hobby that the hobby itself begins to feel more like a chore than something you really enjoy. In my experience the best solution is to go on a mental vacation and take a rest week, just to unwind and have the brain and body rest itself. Since Sean and I are a bit busy with things outside of this blog this week we decided to take the week off from writing to focus on other aspects of our lives all the while relieving ourselves of the dreaded writer's block.


We will be back next week with more of your daily short stories! In the mean time here's a video of a cat rockin' out on a drum set:

Her Name was Sophie

Ever see those anime fangirls or fanboys (I don't discriminate, so shall we call them fanhumans or fanpeople now?) who are just obsessed with Japanese culture and would do anything to move to Japan without even going past the stereotypical behavior or culture? They always tend to be American too (of course this is just coming from my own personal experience in which most the people I know are American) well I wanted to write a story about someone with those fanhuman characteristics and turn it up to eleven! Sophie is a woman from France who can't afford to move to America, but she will do anything to make it seem like she's from there.


Her name was Sophie, her belt said Steve. It was her favorite buckle. She made sure
everyone knew of her American boyfriend Steve, how much he loved her, and that the Atlantic
between them could never separate their eternal souls. He made it especially for her between his
shifts in the oil fields, going behind his boss’ back to use the tool shop. She was forever his.
She said she was American, and she sure as hell made sure her appearance vouched for
her. The belt snuggly held her Wrangler jeans to her tall frame. Half tucked into beltline was an
orange-and-red plaid shirt. Brown boots clacked after every step she took as she anxiously
strutted down the Paris streets towards her apartment.

She had recently moved to Paris into a small apartment overlooking an equally small
park. After moving in she made sure to tell anything with a pulse that she was from America,
Chicago specifically. When they questioned her about her perfect French, she would respond
saying that she was pressured to learn French at a young age by her parents. If they interrogated
further about her authentic accent she said she was a theater prodigy who was training for a
leading role of Les Miserables, never saying which one.

A cardboard package greeted her in front of her apartment door. “To Sophie, from
America with Love,” the package read, surrounded in a giant heart. She never received packages,
save the belt buckle, only letters. Typically upon receiving postage from her American lover she
would launch a crusade across her floor, reading aloud in an odd mixture of English and French
to each and every tenant whether they opened their doors or not. But today she didn’t bother
sharing the precious package. Instead she dashed into her apartment, slamming the door behind
her.

She chunked Steve’s belt buckle aside as if it were an old toy she didn’t care for anymore,
she didn’t care if her pants fell to the floor. Within the contents of the small brown box was her
long awaited gift. Like a child on Christmas morning too eager to wait for her parents, her hands
clawed their way into the heart of the box, producing brown confetti within their wake. When the
content had revealed itself to her, her heart stopped: it was love at first sight, again.
Within the heart laid belt buckle with a different name, a name she found quite charming,
the perfect American name. Each letter was cut from brass, their precision impeccable, perhaps
too precise. An easy fix. She took a hammer to its face in an act to prove the buckle was
handmade. Afterwards she inspected the back. On the backend was the serial number 839, she
doubted anyone would notice it, but to be on the safe side shaved away the number with her
fingernail file. Her work was complete. She held the buckle up into the ceiling light above,
grinning at her masterpiece.

Steve no longer existed anymore, she hadn’t worked out the details. Perhaps she would
tell her friends that Steve cheated on her; or that the distance drove them apart; or that he died in
a tornado of fire as oil erupted beneath his feet blowing him sky high as he took a casually
smoked a cigarette a tad close to the drill, she liked that one. She had a new American man now,
who sweetly took her into his arms, and gave her his own special buckle to comfort her after
Steve had betrayed her/ emotionally abandoned her/ died/ whatever. Anxiously she fiddled with
the new buckle until it finally gave a satisfying snap. Taking a heel-face turn to the mirror behind
her, she dazed at her reflection. Her grin lifted like a stage curtain revealing an ensemble of teeth.
She couldn’t wait to show everyone her new handmade buckle. Within the frame of the mirror,
was a white strip of paper laying onto of the mutilated box, was a receipt with her name on it.
Her name was Sophie, her belt said John.

Everything has changed pt.2 the shower scene

Today is a sequel to one of my earlier posts "Waking up and everything has changed. Which you can find here if you need to read it: http://nakedlysane.blogspot.com/2014/08/waking-up-and-everything-has-changed.html . Please enjoy I know I did writing it. This is about the part where I had figured everything up to. So from now on I am flying blind. So we will see what happens next time!

            I didn’t know what to do. Most girls are so secretive of what happens during this time, they hide it under undirected animosity to anyone trying to help. I figured I had to find some sort of pads or tampon, where could they be? I flung open the cabinets under the sink and tore apart everything I saw for what ever looked like it could help me. It took me a bit to realize I found what I needed because I was so unfamiliar with the products. It took me three tries to put a tampon where it needed to be; it felt so awkward to have something inside me like that and wondered what a dick felt like. Just to be sure I added a pad to the panties I was already wearing, could never be too sure, it ended up just adding to the comfortableness.

            In my rush I almost forgot about the shower I so desperately needed. I could feel the stickiness of sweat all over my skin; I must have had a long night. So I started the shower almost immediately although it took some finagling, a little to fancy for my experience. I quickly found some towels, stripped and jumped in the shower once it got hot. The shower was amazing like something out of a magazine, water flowed from the showerhead like rain in the Amazon, I certainly didn’t want to leave. I was astounded by the number of products that lined the shelf in the back of the shower from shaving material and face wash to shampoo and conditioner; the things these girls do to look good frightened me.

            The shower gave me time to think. This certainly couldn’t be a dream if it is this vivid and real, how could my mind make up everything that is happening? If it weren’t a dream what happened that would cause all of this? I am clearly in some other woman’s body a very beautiful body at that. I felt my boobs just to check if they were real. Certainly enough and apparently ‘my’ uterus decided it didn’t want to feel left out and had to express the anger it had for me, is this what girls feel every month? This felt like some sci-fi B movie. I could only imagine how much worse it was going to get. If I had changed bodies someone else must have, so I must not be alone. The only problem is did everyone else switch as well? If they did chaos would soon ensue, as people figured out no one knows where to go to work, schools, government, public systems, groceries all closed. People would take advantage of the situation: stealing, rioting, and impersonating someone they are not. Who knows what would happen to your own body: sex trafficking, drugs, violence. This had to be the end of the world as we know it if it doesn’t get fixed some how. What happens when we get stuck like this? I am a man in a woman’s body; I can’t handle a period every month, sex with a man or having a baby. I don’t know what to do. Everything was just so overwhelming; I had to stop thinking about it so I brushed it to the back of my mind. I turned off the shower and toweled off.

            The thoughts plagued me so I concentrated on finding clothes. I guess panties and a bra are up first but I didn’t know where to look. I stumbled around the flat again, plenty of clothes on the floor but those are not clean; I am at least decent enough for that. The closet was full of clothes, dresses, suits and sexy outfits even some costumes but no underwear. What does this girl do? I am pretty sure I don’t even want to know. The only place left was the chest of drawers. Trying each one I finally hit it, “Jackpot!” I said out loud and dropped the towel to start putting on what would hide my shame. No sooner that I did when a voice came from behind the sheets of the bed, “Good morning, sweet thang.” I watched in horror as a large black man raised his head into view of all my glory. I screamed and he joined me.

Lifelines [The Navigator Part 3]

 It's another Fri-sunday special! This one is another Navigator story, previously The Navigator hit a dead end at the river Styx, unable to cross it due to its enormous width he has to resort to engineering his own methods of crossing, one that involves a long rope and a rock along with the discovery of a mysterious tentacle creature. 

Previous Chapter: The Inner Circle [Part 2]

The Beginning: The Navigator Part 1

    The line thrashed violently back-and-forth, like a pissed off anaconda with its head caught in a mousetrap or hole too small for the rest of its body. The shaking rocked the tiny iceberg like a house on top of a fault line, no matter how many times this happened he always tipping into the frozen depths below. On cue The Navigator pulled the line, his feet anchored against a small ledge of ice carved crudely to the contours of his boots. He made sure to not pull too strongly, or the ice might betray him, sending him straight off the ice raft into the freezing water where he would most likely die from the wild life, and if not hypothermia. He hoped it was the latter. Slowly he pulled the rope, counting to three between each tug. One, two, three. Pull. One, two, three. Pull, and so on.

    Many pulls and approximately eighteen meters of rope later The Navigator finally came up on top. The end of the line fought back one final time before giving in to the tug of war match, the tendrils always went limp before giving in, he just hoped this one didn’t get smart and let go. The last thing his growling stomach needed was an empty line, which would only be possible if a tendril discovered that the air was more lethal to them than bugspray is to mosquitoes. He drew in the rest of the line and observed his catch.

    Dangling from the bitter end of the rope was a smooth black featureless conical creature no wider than The Navigator’s arm at the thickest, the creature looked like a disembodied tentacle with all its suction cups allocated to the thickest end. Slivers of blue-white light ran down the length of the creature’s body, the strands looked like moonlight, if the moon was out that was. Like a good explorer The Navigator gave the tentacles a name, he called them simply tendrils, for obvious reasons. He unwinded the tendril from the rope, tossed the rock its body was wrapped around into a pile of other rocks, pulled out his knife and dug into the tendril’s meaty body.

It was lunch time.

*****

Like all most discoveries the tendrils were discovered on accident. Using his rope and an assortment of rocks he would stand at the shoreline of Styx tossing the rocks tied to the end of the rope at the drifting icebergs, the plan was to have the rocks function as a grappling hook of some sorts and reel the ice inwards. Most of the time he was remind with each throw why he never played sports throughout grade school; he was beginning to regret not having the foresight of the extremely improbable possibility that one day he would have to use the arc of a basketball combined with the accuracy and speed of a pitcher to save his life. Who knew?

Hours he spent tossing at the drifting ice, only taking breaks if he didn’t see any ice drifting downstream or when a rock came loose and left him for the river. When the moon was high in the air, what he now called noon, his arms were completely exhausted and he was down to his last rock.

They say save the best for last, but that doesn’t really apply in survival situations. Unlike the first rock he used it had no sharp edges for catching the ice nor rough texture to grip the rope with. Each rock between the two digressed downwards until it was smooth and mossy like this one. With no other choice but to walk up the hillside to collect more rocks or try one more time with this runt and call it a lunch when it failed he decided to toss the runt of the pile.

Rock wound up in his hand, rope tied about it like some sort of poorly knotted gift box, and iceberg in sight he pitched the rock slightly ahead of the drifting glacier. The stone soared straight threw the air, up and up it went just like the past few hundred throws; and just like the past few hundred throws he knew what was going to happen next, he could hear it in his mind’s ears: splash, except his ears heard something different: Thud!

He did it, he made contact. GOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLL! Or whatever they say in basketball, he didn’t care, after hours of pitching he finally made contact with the ice. Navigator: one, dying-on-the-edge-of-the-river: zero. He quickly grabbed the line and pulled inwards with full force.

Shhh, Tap, Spash. The three sounds he didn’t want to hear, the sound of sliding across the ice, hitting the edge then falling. Physics just called a penalty upon his goal, for what reasons he didn’t know but he assumed it was for a faulty choice in a rock, not up to regulation for makeshift grappling hooks. Navigator: zero, dying-on-the-edge-of-the-river: one. The line dropped from his hands and he fell to the ground in defeat. Maybe he’ll give it another shot after halftime.

Halftime was a lunch, another dry cardboard meal of rations, one of four left. As he hesitantly placed the brick into his mouth he couldn’t help but to think how happy he was that he was almost out of them. It meant a lighter load, and no disgusting after-taste (or taste in general for that matter). Though he was a bit concerned, after he ran out he’d be stuck with only half a box of chocolate; which although tasted much better, didn’t contain nearly enough nutrients or energy to sustain a fully grown man over the course of several days, he could probably make the box last a two meals if he stretched it long enough.

The ration was a quarter devoured when he saw the rope shake violently back-and-forth across the shoreline, he spat out a piece of the brick spraying its brown substance onto the equally brown dirt. Instincts kicked in all the way from deen down in brainstem, his brain had to chose between fight or flight, and it chose fight. His brainstem flung his body towards the rope, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight the rope or pull it back, so he did both.

His hands made contact with the rope’s end as if he were grabbing the head of a snake, at the same time he pulled it inwards wrapping it around his arms as he was trained to do back in the Academy, the rope was your lifeline never-ever let it go. In survival situations the rope was more essential than a Q-tool and the antenna pack combined. A rope could be used for any tasks from simply tying things to your backpack and functioning as a belt, to restraining a crew member to a pipe or chair if they got off the deep end and decided to declare a mutiny, it could be used to climb or repel down ledges, function as a pulley or ladder, it could be tied to make a snare to catch prey, fishing, and too many more reasons to count. The only thing it couldn’t do was push. Compared to a Q-tool a rope had way more practical survival purposes, the Q-tool could only tell you what to do it could never do anything for you.

The tug-of-war match continued for what felt like forever, several times the rope nearly slipped from his grasp or worse pulled him into Styx. The haze made it difficult to see what his opponent was, he would have dismissed it as a boulder if it wasn’t for the violent shaking of the rope. His hidden opponent made a crucial mistake: it subsided its shaking, that’s when he took the upper hand. He pulled with his whole body, letting gravity and the muscles of his legs work in unison to pull his weight back and down the contender gave in. Like a loaded spring with the tension just released her flew straight up and back through the air. His back his the ground first chased by the rope and a black extension that hung by its end. He may have one but not without his opponent making one more strike, the black object’s trajectory was aimed directly at his face.

Crack! The object hit him directly on his jaw.

“AHHHHHHH!” He cried out, “fuck that hurt!” He tried to say, but it sounded more like “thuck, that hurth!” The impact had caused his mouth to slam shut with his tongue directly in the middle.

He spat out a few ounces of blood before looking at the attacker: a black snake like creatures coiled up in a messy knot that glistened under the midday moon. With his knife he uncoiled the organic knot, the texture was as smooth as the creature was glossy it could easily wiggle right out of his hands slipping back into Styx if it chose too but it chose to remain limp and motionless. The tendril was soft, almost mushy like a sausage, he couldn’t feel a single trace of bone within the creature, it was pure muscle, which didn’t explain his now swollen tongue. When he finished uncoiling the tendril from the rope he found the culprit, his own rock. The creature was stuck to it using a suction cup, it had used his own weapon against him.

He looked at the slimy body, then at his ration, and back again. It would be nice to have meat again.

To be continued....

Time for Revenge

Hey everybody! Today's prompt was an interesting one. I had to write about time being stopped for 30 minutes and only one person can move around freely, but they don't know about it. I really liked this prompt and ended up writing a bit of a longer post today but I really think I did it justice so please enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

“Michelle!”

I heard him scream my name. I already knew what was coming like I was psychic. Mr. Richardson walked over to my station in a huff. In his mind he owned the place in reality he was just the assistant manager. When Mrs. Price isn’t here on Sundays and Wednesdays, he likes to feel powerful by yelling at the employees usually me specifically. He thinks it will make me a better employee; someone that can take pissed off customers and maybe makes better business decisions. It doesn’t work.

“Michelle, did you sell that matching set of catesque necklace and earrings yesterday under sticker price?”

“Yes.” There was no denying it not like I cared, I knew what I did and I knew I was right in doing it. We needed to make room for more of our better inventory, that set was sitting here for months with out interest. I even asked Mrs. Price first and she said it was okay, but I couldn’t fight back or I wouldn’t have this ‘wonderful’ job as a jewelry saleswoman in the mall.

“I had someone who was going to buy it full price,” he lied through his teeth. Everyone knew if something had gone unsold for months he would ‘borrow it’ for his mistress. “Did you even consider asking me before that sale? Huh? I didn’t think so. You don’t think at all; you are just a nice pair of tits to bring customers in.” At this point I used to start crying but after weeks of this you get used to it. A smirk crossed his face as he turned to leave me there thinking my ego had been crushed for the day.

He didn’t get very far before a white flash engulfed everything. After my eyes adjusted from almost being blinded I found Mr. Richardson in the middle of trying to trip one of our back of house workers Mike. The strange thing was Mike was in mid fall with boxes going everywhere but was perfectly frozen where he was. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I slowly approached them wondering what the hell happened. Mr. Richardson still had his stupid smirk on his face as he was tripping Mike who had a face of shock and terror as he fell each box slid from his grasp. I couldn’t take this piece of scum anymore.

Everyone else was just the same as Mike and Mr. Richardson, petrified like statues stuck doing what they were doing during the flash but I wasn’t. I knew what I had to do and quickly, who knows how long what ever happened was going to last and I certainly didn’t want to get caught. I pick-pocketed Mr. Richardson’s phone and keys to the counter where kept our most expensive items. I grabbed what ever looked good and cost a fortune. That diamond embroidered sapphire along with it’s ruby twin and that 24 carat diamond ring his mistress eyes so greedily when she comes and sees him for lunch. Next I planted the ‘evidence’ in Mr. Richardson’s pockets filling each one with enough to incriminate him for a long time.

Finishing up with that I felt pity for Mike he always seems to have bad luck to cross Mr. Richardson at the wrong time. I grabbed the falling boxes out of the air and set them down a few paces away and tried to steady him as much as possible. Next I moved the sleaze ball toward the back door as if trying to make a get away. My plan was perfect, at least to me. Now all I had to do was wait for everything to return back to normal, which didn’t take long. I had barely gotten back to my seat when Mike make his slight trip and caught himself trying to grasp something that was no longer there. I called the mall security as he tried to figure out what happened to boxes he was carrying just a moment earlier.

“Hello, Security? Yes, I need assistance Mr. Richardson of the Price is Right Jewelry store is trying to get away with some of our merchandise!” I pretended to sound alarmed. Theater was always my favorite class in school. Now for the pièce de résistance, I unlocked Mr. Richardson’s phone and pulled up the email conversations he has with his mistress. Secret love affair is not so secret anymore. I hit forward and selected his wife’s contact information. I watched as every single record of what he does is sent to what will surely be his ex-wife.

Right on time Mr. Richardson starts to walk through the doorway to the main floor of the store his had clutching one of the necklaces I had planted. I cut him off to stall, “Mr. Richardson, you forgot your phone after you had finished berating me and thought you would want it back.” I acted as sweetly as possible distracting him with the very same tits he just thought I was the only good thing about me. “Mr. Richardson! What is that in your hand?” Before he could say a word security rushed in and grabbed him. My work here is done.

I watched as they pulled him away, kicking and screaming, “I don’t know where these came from. You have to believe me. I have been set up.”

Now I was the one with the smirk on my face.

Poetry Day #2: Me Times Three

 I'm in a poetry kick today. As some of you may know, on my other blog, Plenty of Hours, I got a shuffle to write a haiku. After said haikus I got in to the mood to try to write a story like  normally do, but in the format of a poem. It's no Beowulf or Odyssey or Paul Revere for that matter, but it's something I've never tried before. Let me know what you think!

Today I saw me times three.

One who played aggressively on the court,

Two sat on the bench fixated upon a report,

And Me Number Three relaxed beneath the Lonely Tree.

They were all the same as me in every way,

Long dark and silky hair,

An ocean deep blue stare,

And skin as tan as a French latte.

It was only I who seemed to react,

My mouth as wide as a double door.

I prayed that there could not be any more,

For my brain could no longer abstract.

“What the hell is happening here?”

I unconsciously said aloud.

I quickly covered my eye as if to enshroud.

“Please tell me I’m looking at a mirror.”

I heard the basketball game slowly waive

Number One must have heard my cry.

I prayed to god hoping she was shy,

And not someone as insanely brave.

I twisted my torso to show my back,

The sound of footsteps slowly crescendoed.

The beating of my heart quickly zeroed.

Oh god was I having a heart attack?

“Why do we look the same?”

She spoke panting yet sweet.

I withdrew my hands knowing I was effete.

“Please tell me you at least have a different name.”

From this I could tell she was in shock,

“My name is Emily J. Poke,”

The words trembled as I spoke.

My copy said nothing, all she did was gawk.

When she spoke her voice was as thin as her bones,

“My name is Jamie T. Gin,

Are you my long lost twin?”

I took it she didn’t see the other clones.

I simply shook my head side-to-side,

“Look north that way by the bench,”

I said pointing my thumb and resisting to blench.

My clone look that away and her mouth grew wide.

“I see two more of us that way,”

She whispered and pointed to number Two,

“The look like they’re having the same conversation as me and you.”

I looked and I saw Two and Three conversing as if some cliché.

Me Two and Three waved at us,

They waved the way old friends do.

“Do you think they want us to come to?”

I said trying as if to discuss.

“I say let them come here,”

Number One said taking a seat

My clone look depressed almost deadbeat.

“Until then, I need a beer.”