Monday, May 27, 2013

Memorial Day 2013

In honor of those who have left us, by force or by choice, I wish to say: You are Remembered.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Spambox Sunday: Watch Out for Brussels!

This weekend I've been inundated with spam. The post that's getting hit? Week Five of WoE's Write at the Merge, La Douleur Exquise. I've had 100 spam comments since Friday, and the Google stats say I've strong readership rise in Russia and India. Coincidence?

Some of these are down right ridiculous. I thought I'd share my favorites:

Hi there, I found your site by means of Google even as looking for a comparable subject, your website got here up, it seems great. I've bookmarked it in my google bookmarks. Hi there, simply became aware of your weblog through Google, and located that it's truly informative. I'm gonna watch out for brussels. I'll appreciate in the event you proceed this in future. Lots of other people shall be benefited from your writing. Cheers!

 I mean, those pesky brussels pop up everywhere, right?

But wait, there's more:
Fastidious replies in return of this query with genuine arguments and describing the whole thing on the topic of that.
On the topic of THAT. With genuine arguments. I'm fastidious and proud!

And another:
Many bodybuilders make this same mistake, and take the hard road. While they are struggling to pack on any muscle at all, you. The reason is that too often people consume too much protein at one time and most of it goes to waste
Um, I don't remember writing anything about muscle building. Maybe the protein isn't going to waste, it's just wasting my memory?

But that's not all. I'm apparently responsible for someone's meal:
An outstanding share! I have just forwarded this onto a friend who was conducting a little homework on this. And he actually bought me lunch due to the fact that I stumbled upon it for him. .. lol. So let me reword this.... Thank YOU for the meal! ! But yeah, thanks for spending the time to talk about this topic here on your web page.
And the following I don't even think is English:
Undeniably believe that which you stated. Your favorite justification appeared to be at the web the simplest factor to take note of. I say to you, I certainly get annoyed while other folks think about worries that they just do not recognize about. You controlled to hit the nail upon the highest as well as defined out the entire thing without having side-effects , folks could take a signal. Will probably be back to get more. Thank you
I mean OW! My brain itches!

And last but not least:

hey there and thank you for your info – I have definitely picked up something new from right here. I did however expertise several technical points using this website, as I experienced to reload the site lots of times previous to I could get it to load properly. I had been wondering if your web hosting is OK? Not that I am complaining, but sluggish loading instances times will often affect your placement in google and can damage your high-quality score if advertising and marketing with Adwords. Anyway I'm adding this RSS to my e-mail and could look out for much more of your respective fascinating content. Ensure that you update this again soon.
I'm on strike folks. I think it's too much work to load and reload instances times, let alone to expertise several technical points from right here.

Geez, spam robots from India and Russia, as entertaining as you have been...GET A LIFE!

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Broken Chopsticks (WoE #20 Orphan and Pianist challenge)

Have five challenges really passed me by? I'm so sorry. I've been neck-deep in the self-publishing world, prepping for The Trouble With Henry's little big debut. And Write On Edge has been speaking about me, as in the inactivity that takes root in creativity with a vengeance. Like the garden in the backyard, it's time to weed.

Sooo, this week we have the word "orphan" and a sketch of hands at piano keys.

Cracking knuckles.

Blank screen.

Here we go.

I give the following in response:  Broken Chopsticks

Rubble lined the plot where her home once stood. Tendrils of smoke and ash danced with earth and brick, framing forgotten memories with no future. Sofie clutched a scrapbook to her chest in attempt to shield her heart, to preserve her fragile innocence, to keep her wits from fracturing under the weight of the end. It was an unbearable struggle, and useless. She survived, but to what end?

Her mother made waffles in the kitchen every morning, but Sofie couldn’t remember ever eating them. The scent of butter coated everything and white cabinets yellowed at daybreak. Her father poured syrup…no, not syrup. Something darker, richer... Molasses. Her father poured molasses in methodical squares, with the precision of a little boy coloring inside of lines in a book, frowning if the darkness overflowed onto the plate. And she would, what? Sofie wiped the memory away as it slipped through her eyelids, leaving her cheeks cold and damp.

“It’s not good for us to be standing here.” Tiko was born with a voice of reason. His parents were divorced several times over. He was an orphan, too, but the kind that comes from neglect and a couple bottles of $10 scotch. “Not if we’re still going to make Amarillo.”

“I just can’t believe it’s all gone.” Her ankle twisted as she balance-beamed towards the remnants of the back porch. “It’s all gone and I don’t know what waffles taste like.”

He folded his arms. “We came a hundred miles out of our way for waffles? Sofie, we could’ve just stopped at IHOP.”

She leaped across some bricks and recovered from a shaky landing. Her voice stuck in her throat. “It made sense at the time.”

“You’re crying.” Tiko scratched his temple. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I can’t remember any of it, Tiko.” The scrapbook escaped her grasp and scattered memory fragments across the broken earth. She cursed as she bent to collect the pictures. Frustration fought the images, creasing and dog-earing scrap in her hands.

He stooped to help, gripping her hands until she had control again. “Is she your mother? She was a looker.”

Sofie concentrated on the face in her hands. The photograph showed signs of improper storage and acid erosion. She cringed. Her memory was the same, darkened edges, acid-bleached faces, like she came from a long line of Amish dolls. “I wish I could say for certain it was. But honestly, it could be my aunt, or my grandmother.”

“Stop it, Sofie.”

“Stop what?” She shoved her past back into the book.

“Stop…this. Take a deep breath and embrace what you have, not what you lost.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not…”

“I’m not.” He sighed. “My grandmother was a concert pianist. You know what I remember? Nothing but thin, spindly fingers fighting arthritis to play chopsticks.” He helped her stand and brushed dirt from her jeans. “It’s not fair. I get it. But this isn’t going to fix it.”

Sofie exhaled. “Amarillo.”