 Day 1 - June Image Challenge: The hill held so many childhood memories. Stargazing with his Gran was the best. She’d known more about the stars than anyone else he knew. It was too bad his folks had kept him away till after she’d passed. He would have preferred a happier reunion than today’s stilted wake, but Gran would have liked having the family back together again. What can I say about Gran? She was the only one in the family who honestly did not give a flying fuck (Pardon my French but Gran would approve.) what anyone thought. She marched to the beat of an outrageous drummer. I really got Gran. She really got me. She always said we were the sane ones in the family. Wouldn't anyone in their right mind want to slip out of bed at midnight, tiptoeing down the stairs, avoiding that one squeaky step, to gaze at the midnight stars? Up the hill we would climb. I would sit on my swing, hanging from the branch of a centuries-old oak tree. "Push me Gran! Higher! Higher!" and Gran would push. Higher and higher. Closer and closer to the stars. When I got older, I didn't want to swing anymore but we went to the hill at midnight anyway. Gran always said the stars are the windows to the universe. If we keep looking through those windows long enough, we might just see someone looking back at us. I will say the words to the group of faces, haughty and staunch, belonging to judgmental relatives seated on the church pews. Gran would want me to say them. "I will always love and miss Gran. She was the heart of this family and you will miss the heart, now that it is gone. Gran loved you, unconditionally. Shame on all of you," I dabbed at a tear rolling down my cheek. Fuck 'em all. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-1 (Click to Read Day 2)
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 Day 2 - June Image Challenge: Where am I? In the pitch black your skin can sense cold air, your bare feet inform you of the smooth tile beneath you, and your ears pick up an eerie and foreboding dripping sound. Then light floods the cell. Blinking, your eyes slowly adjusting, you see something unbelievable on the other side of a glass wall. *** I hear a beep. I feel a drip. I hear a beep. I feel a drip. I hear a beep. I feel a drip. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. BEEP. DRIP. BEEP. DRIP. BEEPDRIPBEEPDRIPBEEPDRI… "MAKE IT STOP!" I shout but the words won't leave my mouth. I access the mental calendar inside my brain. 29 mental tick-marks in groupings of five, reminiscent of what you might see on a prison wall. Drawn on. A finger using dripping blood. I add another mental tick to the four marks on the end of my mental tally, a diagonal line drawn across the grouping of four, begging for that line to complete its pattern. Day 30. Where am I? I sense my body, prone and heavy. I attempt to move an arm, a leg, then finally focus on just one toe. My big toe. Nothing. I hear a buzz. Like a hive of angry bees. Then I drift. Beep. Drip. Beep Drip. Day 31. I add a solo tick-mark adjacent to the last grouping of five. I attempt the movements. Arms. Legs. Big toes. Nothing. Then the buzzing begins. The buzzing gets closer. Above me? The buzz begins to take on a pattern. A pattern familiar but I am still locked inside my brain. Voices. I drift. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. Day 32. I make the mental tick. I go through the ritual. Arms. Legs. Big toe. Big toe! A flicker of movement, trying in earnest now. The big toe moves, the smaller toes follow suit. The buzzing takes on a faster, higher fluctuation. Closer than usual. Excited buzzing. I feel a whisper of breath on my face followed by a soft peck on my forehead, gentle like a butterfly kiss. I become hyper-aware of eyelids as I feel them flutter, shafts of light. I drift. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. Day 33. Mental tick-mark. Arms. Legs. Legs and all ten toes! Sweet movement; my eyelids flutter. Buzzing turns to voices. Voices turn to one voice. A voice familiar. I think of rain. Walking in the rain while this voice whispers words of love in my ear. I mentally push using all of my strength. Shoulders pushing arms pushing hands through a fragile barrier, smooth...glass-like. It feels like swimming up and up from a dark pit toward a glow. If I could just push a little harder now. Eyelids! Open! A face hovering just inches above my face. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. I can hear and see it all so clearly now. Lying in a bed. Tubes and machines all around me. "Darling, welcome back," a voice so tender; a kiss so gentle on my forehead. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-2 (Click to read Day 3)  Day 3 - June Image Challenge: Her feet ached and her backpack cut into her shoulders, but the mountain air lifted her spirits like no other could. She’d hiked every other trail in the range but this one. Today she was finally going to finish what she started with her mom so many years ago. (*warning - triggering subject matter) Mama and I had a special bond. It was a kind of bond prisoners of war might form. Bound together as a tight-knit unit. Us against them, so to speak. Holding up under trauma and fear and suffering. Some call it the Stockholm Syndrome. It happens when the victim begins to feel thankful, grateful, in awe of the fact that the captor once again spared them. Another day of sweet life. Allowed to live one more minute...or hour...or day. Soon the victim begins to associate with the captor. Finds empathy and sometimes love for the captor. When you marry a monster, it is a slow process. It might be angry words followed by a push. Upon seeing that my mama stayed, next time was worse. A slap. She stayed. A punch. She stayed. Over time, she thought she deserved it. I learned (in therapy) that we teach others how to treat us, letting them know just how far they can go. If you let things go too far, there is no turning back. It becomes impossible to leave. Trauma-bonded. After Daddy passed, Mama fell in love with the monster. He was a beautiful monster. Covert, he had us all fooled. Terms of endearment, (sweetheart, my love, darling) a public persona but I saw what happened at night. I was too young to intervene. The contrasts were glaring. Daddy was a gentle soul who loved nature. The monster was an evil presence who loved himself. But mama finally got out, God love her. She finally found peace and rest. Eternal rest. I will make this final journey for Mama. It is what she would want. I carry my load, heavy on my back. I hear my breath, heavy in my ears. I feel my heartbeat, heavy in my chest. I learned (in therapy) to let those emotions out. Scream, if you must. I will sprinkle Mama's ashes...holding the urn up high...letting the wind decide which way they should blow. They will mingle and rest with the ashes of Daddy. This was our happy place once upon a time. Then I will let the hills echo my scream. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-3 (Click to read Day 4)  Day 4 - June Image Challenge: The black & white armies are locked in a desperate contest of will, patience, and wit! Will either end up on top, or will they both wither and die from their conflict? Players: Black Team: (B) Strengths: 16 Powerful opponents. Highly skilled wordsmiths. Not easily flustered. Quick on the comebacks. Not afraid to get dirty. Weaknesses: Tendency to say the first thing that pops into their heads. Hot tempered. Can be a little prickly (pun intended). Fights among themselves. White Team (W): Strengths: 16 Formidable opponents. Never-give-up attitude. Quick recall skills. Can take an insult with ease. Dry sense of humor (pun intended). Weaknesses: Fights Dirty. Sore losers. Easily distracted. Rules: No hitting below the pads, piths or trunks. No "yo pollinator" insults. No "yo host" insults. No back-stabbing. No use of needles. No pruning, weeding, fertilizing or over-watering. No repetition of insults. Response time: 10 seconds Let the game begin! B: Dried up fuzzball. W: Too tall columnar. B: Sticker. W: Prick. B: Fusarium rot! W: Stem rot! B: Mammillaria. W: Opuntia. B: Soft Rot. W: Root Knot. B: Jerk! W: Whiner! B: Scab. W: Overwatered! B: Overrated! W: Dry Rot. B: Sunscald. W: Withered. B: Flowerless. W: Imbecile! B: Juvenile! W: Psychoactive. B: Hallucinogenic. W: Botanical. B: Succulent. W: Pawn! B: Rook! W: Weak areoles! B: Cracked tubercules! W: Yo host is a Carnegiea Gigantea! B: Yo pollinator's a WASP! FOUL PLAY! Referee Determination: Use of simultaneous "yo pollinator/yo host" insults thus hitting below the truck. Conclusion: Draw Now shake limbs and apologize! By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-4 (Click to read Day 5)  Day 5 - June Image Challenge: All of her worries about almost dropping her coffee onto this nearby stranger evaporated the moment she locked eyes with him—never mind the out-of-place top hat he was wearing. I picked up my black cap and gown for the upcoming graduation ceremony. Zippity-do-dah! Goodbye Oklahoma and ramen noodles. Just one more thing to do before packing my bags and gassing up the clunker, the second unreliable car I'd owned in my four years of college. He (the clunker) was of mammoth proportions and white with ocean blue vinyl seating and an eight-track tape deck. A salty fellow (literally, as his undercarriage was covered in road-salt induced rust speckles), he reminded me of Moby Dick, so he became Moby: the beached white whale. I'd pack Moby to the gills; he'd be ready and waiting for a quick getaway. Then I would walk the aisle (covered in the black cap and gown), simultaneously shaking the dean's hand with my right hand while the left grabbed my diploma, then waved an elaborate adios to college and hola to a career job and sweet-sweet moola. I was wrong. Things didn't go exactly as planned. Elementary school teachers were a dime a dozen back then, so I pursued a job inspired by my Aunt Sue’s career, a flight attendant position with Delta Airlines. It was a three-month process to finally get an interview and a job offer before heading to Atlanta for a month of training. After a second graduation ceremony, this time decked out in high heels and a navy blue suit that proudly sported a set of gold Delta wings, I chose a base-city about as far removed from Oklahoma as I could—without falling off into the ocean. That is how I discovered the magical city of Boston in 1984. I found a tiny-but-still-expensive basement apartment on Commonwealth Avenue ("Comm Ave.") and rode the subway (the "T") to Logan Airport on a regular basis. Having moved around a lot growing up, always in southern states (Is Oklahoma southern?), I found everything about this historical port city fascinating: the brownstone apartments in Beacon Hill, the Italian food in the North End, the Red Sox and Fenway Park (much smaller than I thought), Faneuil Hall with its shops and restaurants, the Friday/Saturday Haymarket, and the Freedom Trail, to name a few. One thing I noticed as I began to adjust to life in the big city, probably because I struggled with it on a daily basis, was the Boston accent. They just didn't pronounce their "r's" the same way that I did. It was challenging for me to understand, so I began to stalk conversations going on around me as I rode the T to and from work. I wanted to talk the talk and walk the walk, hoping to someday fit in. I wanted to feel like I belonged. As I watched and listened, I saw something intriguing. The first time I noticed him on the T, he was seated in the corner wearing a tattered top hat. He had his right arm draped over the back of the bench-like seat, typical of subway cars, deep in conversation with an empty seat. The man was having an entire conversation, experiencing every range of emotion, with an invisible person on a full train (standing room only), where every seat was occupied, except the one to the right of him. The one occupied by the friend. They laughed. They cried. They hollered. They smirked. They blustered. They became furious; but then laughed some more, until they fell asleep. At least I think the friend was sleeping; but he could have been faking it. I began to notice this out-of-sorts-man-in-the-top-hat and his friend in other places around the city. He seemed to be a regular and the locals would greet him (always Joseph; never Joe), making sure to also ask how Charlie was getting along. After conferring with Charlie-the-friend, the answer was always the same, "Aye ya know Chahlie. He's fayah ta middlin." Charlie, Joseph and I seemed to be on the same schedule. I was rigid that way. A creature of habit. On my morning jogs, he strolled alongside the Charles River in his tattered top hat, his right arm resting on the shoulder of Charlie. I had to wonder if his right arm was stuck at that unnatural angle...the result of an accident or some sort of odd arthritis...maybe? Didn't the man's right arm get tired? Was Charlie really there? If so, that guy was a really good listener. I had never even heard him utter a single sound. Each morning, as I approached them jogging at my slow-but-steady pace (like the fabled tortoise), I wanted to stop to ask about Charlie and the arm situation; but they were typically engrossed in a conversation. This particular morning, it was an argument about Larry Bird and the Celtics. After months of seeing the two together, I wanted to start up a conversation with them but always chickened out at the last moment. I gave them a wide berth as I jogged around, never so much as slowing down. This went on for a while until one morning I thought, This is ridiculous. Just say hello! As I drew near, I mumbled a good morning of sorts; and was taken aback, as with a flourish, Joseph swept off his top hat. Then, with an elegant bow and affected British accent said, "G'day my lady." It was weird that his right arm remained airborne through the entire gesture, draped over the ever-present Charlie. I stopped just in front of the duo. I mustered up the nerve to finally ask the question that had been weighing on my mind. I really wanted to know about the arm. How did he keep it perpetually hovering—airborne—all day long? Every day of the year. I had to know! When I began to speak though, all that would come out was, "Erm, how's Charlie?" The man looked to his right, for a minute or two, conferring with Charlie. After a few "Ya dahn't say's!" and "Is that a fact's?" Joseph nodded and placed the scuffed hat atop his balding head (using his left hand, of course), and chuckled, "Aye ya know Chahlie. He reckins he's fayah ta middlin." It was nice to be home. Finally, one of the locals wise to the quirkiness of the mysterious Joseph and his silent friend, Charlie. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-5 Premise inspired by a true story Published on Short Story Town June 28, 2021 [Reddit Writing Prompt] Earth only has seasons because it is tilted on its axis. An alien race from a planet without seasons lands on Earth and begins their invasion. What they don’t realize is, they have landed in Russia and winter is coming. Always-Morning Sound effects: Bloop blop beep (clicks, whirs, and dings). Analysis: "Slowing and approaching third rock from the sun, Sentinel. Just as we suspected, Sir, the parallels are off. A slight tilt is detected." Orders: "You know what to do, son. Straighten 'er up." *** "So that is how Earth came to be the only planet that sits straight as an arrow in the sky and why it is always springtime and always morning." "GRANDPA, GRANDPA! Tell the part how the Russian army kicked the alien's lower-waste-disposal-units." "That is a long story. I will tell you that one another time. Now don't forget to brush your nutrition-grinding-implements before entering your cellular-restoration-chamber.” “And no stalling. I am wise to your ‘Can I have a receptacle of liquid-anti-dehydration-substance before shut-down’ tactics." "Now close your visual orbs and I will see you in the always-morning!" By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Writing Prompt] You're walking down the street when someone suddenly yells, "That's it! I can't do this any longer," and takes off his wig. Everyone stops and one by one, does the same. Turns out, everyone is bald...except you. "Erm, asswipe. Hello! Is this thing on?" I tapped my invisible mic and looked around to see why Snead wasn't laughing at my off-color joke. He was standing at attention, a slack-jawed expression on his face but the weird thing was...his head was completely bald and shaped like a perfect cue ball. I froze in place and then began a slow pirouette as I took in the scene unfolding before my eyes. The sidewalk was littered with wigs and people with blank stares and slack-jawed expressions, eerily similar to Snead’s. I noticed a small trickle of drool slowly rolling down his chin and a little spot of mustard just above his lip. We were just walking back to the office after a quick sandwich at Sal's. All faces in succession turned my way, reminiscent of the Rockettes as they performed their perfect stagger-kick move. I looked down at the ground too afraid to make eye contact with any of these bald and drooling humans. Were they human? I allowed my eyes to quickly shift to the left where my coworker Snead, who’d been my best friend since third grade, was standing and noticed beads of perspiration on his scalp. Seemed to me like a human reaction to stress or maybe the sweltering heat of the summer day. The thing that stood out to me the most though, was a tiny tattoo visible just above his right ear. It looked like a series of numbers but I could not be sure. I side-stepped a bit to my left in order to get a closer look, noticing I could feel a heat radiating upward from the sidewalk as I drew near, and then took a big step back as the reality of the tattoo set in. It was a series of numbers, alright...a series of three. Numbers that were what I considered to be the stuff that horror movies were made of. The numbers 666, what some people called the “mark of the beast”. I, being an agnostic, really didn't have an opinion on this one way or the other. The blank stare left the eyes of my friend and of the frozen people all around me as they bent down to the sidewalks to retrieve the fallen wigs, placing them atop their bald heads neatly covering the devil's numbers. The wigs looked askew and I berated myself for not noticing the obvious shellacked appearance of the false hair before. Snead clapped me on the back in a hearty manner and asked, "Will you join us? We are many and time is short." I briefly thought this over and realized I had floated through life never committing to anything in my 35 years on this earth. I’d never even noticed that my best friend had transformed into some sort of devil worshiper—communicating with Satan through…maybe telepathy. What did I really believe in? I didn't believe in marriage. I didn't believe in a god. I didn't even believe that smoking was bad for one's health. I was a true passive passing through this life unnoticed. What did I have to lose? I slowly reached into my man satchel extracting the crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Lighting up my third smoke of the day; I inhaled then exhaled the sweet tobacco that my body craved and smiled my crooked smile. "Sure. I am with you, my friend. Like you said, time is short. What...besides my hair...do I have to lose?" By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Writing Prompt] Bored with Heaven's docile wildlife, Steve Irwin rounds up a camera crew and leads an expedition to observe and study the native species of Hell... It sure is peaceful here. Sounds of harps and choirs of angels singing with accolades to a higher power and lions lying down with the lambs and doves carrying the branches of olive trees. Peaceful. Crazy. Peaceful. TOO. DAMN. PEACEFUL. I feel a knife-like pain. It resonates through my being. My heart! It feels like it is on fire. What is this pain? It seems so familiar, yet I have no memories of the before. I have always been here, have I not? Always, I have been here, mate. My winged arm swings to clap a hand over my mouth. Mate. So familiar. Mate. Friend. Memories of a friend. Memories of a family. A daughter. A son. Did they follow in my footsteps? A wife. My soulmate. Memories of a previous life and how I loved all the creatures, but especially the ones with a bad rap. The ones mostly misunderstood; a saltwater crocodile named Bindi and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier (pit bull) named Sui. Even one of the Ocean’s Deadliest, a stingray...although that did not end so well. I begin to remember the end... ...My heart stabs with pain. A sharp barb puncturing and ripping across my skin, laying my heart muscle bare. "Hang on. Hang on for your family," a plea from my cameraman, my best mate. The memory floods back in a mighty surge. A monster with a tail. A tail with a barb. A barb ripping open a heart. My heart. Taking a life. My life. My family, left behind, devastated by this loss. Revenge. The word is familiar. Revenge. A word with little credence. Revenge. I will shed my wings and drop into the abyss. Will I have my revenge on this stingray demon? Willingly, I leave this paradise in search of a barb-tailed behemoth. Once smooth in the sea; now smooth in the lake of fire. Will I punish or will I forgive this man-killer, abducting him from his lake of fire only to find him the perfect celestial body of water in which to live out eternity? It is anyone’s guess...crikey! Who is with me? Who will be my cameraman? By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Simple Writing Prompt] Hell Actually Freezes Over Hell actually freezes over and I found myself doing the things I said I would only do when Hell freezes over:
By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt Prompt: Adjective/Noun - Write the first six sentences of a story using: "Cottaged Quarantine" Stay at home...shelter in place...words on the nightly news. Wear a mask and quarantine yourself, if you develop a dry cough. Who hasn't coughed a cough that seemed dry in the past five months? I clap my hand over my mouth, stifling the dry cough, plaguing me for days now. Did anyone hear? The thoughts of being alone...a cottaged quarantine of sorts...for endless days, makes it hard for me to breathe. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Shut Up & Write Prompt [Reddit Writing Prompt ] You're a college professor and grades for the semester have just been posted. One disgruntled failing student comes to you with an archaic copy of the school's bylaws and a pair of weapons. They're invoking a rule from the time of the university's founding allowing them to “pass” through trial by combat. I glanced down at the papers Ms. Fox had placed in my hands. It was a printed screenshot of the archaic bylaw from a book I had only seen once in all the years of my professorship at this historic liberal arts college. It had been a long time since I had read it, so I quickly scanned the perfect calligraphy, grasping the meaning while looking for grammatical errors...out of habit. I had a masters in English Literature and been teaching writing courses at varying levels for just over three decades. It was flawless in grammar and flawless in the explanation of a tradition that seemed medieval at best. “We fight our battles with words in this era, Ms. Fox, so, as stated in the code—If you will look here on the page” (I drew attention to the code duello), “the challenged party has the choice of weapons. I choose words as my weapon. I would like you to hand-write a 2000-word essay titled, The Origin and Decline of the Duel, summarizing its influence on the formation of early America. I will do the same. We will meet back here in my office at dawn to submit our essays to Chancellor Wright. It will be an anonymous submission, judged only on the merit of the writing.” Ms. Fox's shoulders slumped, and she shuffled from one foot to the other while staring down at the floor. She knew she was failing Introduction to English Composition, and I doubt she saw this coming. “What happens if I lose?” she hesitantly inquired. “You will receive the F that has been a result of your lack of motivation and effort. You also were absent many times and failed to hand in assignments. I would be willing to reconsider the F, however, if you will take on some extra credit writing assignments and we will move forward from there. The ball is in your court now Ms. Fox, and I truly hope you succeed.” I was excited to get home to begin my essay. The last time I had been met with this challenge, the failing student went on to graduate with honors and became a Pulitzer Prize winning author. I knew from the couple of hastily typed assignments that had actually been turned in, Ms. Fox held that kind of talent. She just didn't know it...yet. As Ms. Fox turned to leave, I said, “Oh. One more thing. It must be legible, and it must be written in cursive.” This was my ace-in-the-hole. We all knew that Millennials didn't know how to write in cursive. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Simple Writing Prompt] You just ate the world's last Dorito, just to spite your sister. I was tense and could feel a steady stream of sweat rolling slowly down my back. Adjusting my position for what seemed like the hundredth time in an attempt to relieve the numbness beginning in my toes and working its way slowly up my calves, I glanced quickly at my phone to see if it was time yet. The bright glare of the screen briefly blinded me, so I was left with little wavering sunbursts dancing behind my eyelids. I was able to establish that it was indeed go time and my pulse began to race as I slowly arose from the fetal position to a slumped shouldered stance, my posture the result of hiding behind a stack of cleaning supplies and mop buckets in the janitor's closet for hours at a time over the past week. I cracked the door and listened for the footsteps of the nightly security guard. He was fat and kind of lazy and I had been watching and memorizing his routine...learning his patterns night after night. This was not my first attempt to execute the plan. The other times had been met with close calls and I'd had to abort my mission, tucking in tight behind bleach and brooms and a large industrial floor buffer, until my next chance. This time I felt ready. If my calculations were correct, this caricature of the quintessential bumbling deputy would be heading for the dumper right about now. I listened and this creature of habit, true to form, was plodding down a distant hallway. I heard...or rather felt the vibration his oversized body made each time he placed one foot in front of the other and he was starting to make that incessant humming sound again. Was it the beginning of a song or just the happy response of his body as he neared his nightly date with the toilet bowl? Either way, I knew I would have about fifteen minutes to get it done. I stealthily pushed the closet door outward, and leaving it open a sliver just in case, sprinted toward the lab. My bare feet were silent as they met with the linoleum floor. The lab was locked and as I drew near, I pulled out the most recent crumpled sheet of paper that held the door code. It was changed on a regular basis but fortunately I had discovered some, let's say, sensitive information regarding one of the lab technicians and a certain fetish this creep had, so I’d exhorted this knowledge to my advantage. He slipped the crumpled code beneath the door of my cozy temporary home every morning. I held the scrap of paper under the light of my phone and punched in one number at a time: Six●Nine●Six●Nine. Well at least someone in this group of scientists and culinary experts had a sense of humor. The door beeped once as a green light flashed. I quickly glanced behind me with a sense of dread. I expected Deputy Dumper to be standing behind me; but the hall was still empty. I had come so close on the previous attempts only to be forced back into the safety of the janitorial closet at the last second; but this might be the one. I could feel it in my bones and in the deep rumbling hunger of my stomach. I tiptoed into the inner sanctum. It was messy. Not at all what I had expected. It seemed to be one large break area with varying degrees of coagulated coffee in mugs and empty water bottles strewn about haphazardly; while on spotlessly clean counter-tops, I found six evenly spaced petri-like dishes containing dusty orange crumbs. A clipboard with carefully penned notes hung in front of each dish:
*** After a tragic accident involving a deep-fat-fryer, a top-secret area of Frito-Lay Headquarters burned to the ground, leaving the world in a state of shock and disbelief, as the news spread like wildfire that the recipe to one of the world's most tantalizing and tasty snacks had been lost in that inferno. It eventually surfaced that it was indeed the Nacho Cheese Dorito recipe that had been forever engulfed in the fiery flames. After the news, citizens around the world stormed local grocery and convenience stores grabbing everything Frito-Lay off the shelves. It was 24 hours fraught with violence and destruction, known as the "Dorito Riots." The people lucky enough to grab a few bags of the precious Doritos and escape the angry mobs, sold them at a tremendous profit from the back-end of unmarked panel-vans and behind dumpsters until all the chips were just...gone. A rumor had been circulating regarding a secret kitchen-lab where the last known Nacho Cheese Dorito was being studied and tasted as scientists (along with top chefs) tried to replicate the recipe of the endangered chip. My sister and I had an ongoing bet that some day, one of us would find and sneak into the secret facility to devour that protected chip. It was silly; I know, but we were insanely competitive so as time went by, it became the sole purpose of our lives. Clues to the actual existence of this facility were becoming few and far between and it looked like I had reached a dead end; but finally after even more research, wasted weekend trips, and bribes, I found it tucked away in a tiny town in the Deep-Deep South, where fried and crispy delicious snacks were a dietary staple. *** So here I stood, after a week's worth of failed attempts, getting ready to realize my dream of winning the bet and owning my sister as my personal go-fer for life. As I passed the counter-tops, I noticed a glass case containing a solitary chip. It was set high in a little niche cut into the wall and there were hand written affirmations like: "Never Give Up!" And, "Make Every Day a Great Day!" And, "It's Up to You!" And one out of place, "Stop eating my yogurt, Bob!" hanging on thumbtacks around the back-lit orange triangle. I rolled my eyes (Bob sounded like a total tool) and reached up to open the little glass door on the front of the case. This seemed too easy. Like taking candy from a baby. I guessed the challenges were finding the hidden lab, getting past Deputy What's-His-Name, and gaining access to the four-digit code to allow entry into this room. Just as I lifted the chip off the velvet cushion it rested upon, all hell broke loose. Alarms began blaring and lights began flashing. I pulled out my phone and furiously began typing, then took a selfie of my face with the Last Nacho Cheese Dorito on Earth inches from my open mouth. I hit "send" just as the heavy and labored footsteps of a fat-man-running drew near. I did the only logical thing...dropped the chip into my mouth and savored the perfect proprietary blend of ingredients that were the Nacho Cheese Dorito. I was just dusting orange crumbs off of my chin when the door flew open and an electric shock went through my body. I dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Deputy Fats, taser in hand, was on his phone shouting "CODE ORANGE! CODE ORANGE!" and the last thing I remember was wondering what the penalty would be for eating the very last Nacho Cheese Dorito on the planet. Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, my sister would soon be opening the text with my face, the coveted triangular chip, and the triumphant words, "I WIN!" By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt. Query sent to Frito-Lay regarding collaboration on YA novella 2/9/2021 *(Update on Query) I received this response from Frito-Lay 3/8/2021 : Hi Lisa, Thank you for contacting us. We truly appreciate our fans and are flattered that you would want to share your idea with us. Please know I will forward your feedback to our internal teams for future consideration. Thanks again for reaching out to us! Best regards, Mindy PepsiCo Consumer Relations [Reddit Theme-Thursday] - Wrath (*warning - triggering subject matter) His words, as we lay together, "You are lovely. Gazing at your tears gave me a certain kind of pleasure. I felt closer to God when I was inside you. We were meant to be together," still echoed in my head. He was a pastor and it was a blind date set up by one of my Christian friends. He was like no one I had ever met before. Mature. A man. Not a silly boy. Things got out of hand quickly. A rebuff to his advances. His reaction at being turned down...immediate and violent...and it was over as quickly as it had begun. I contemplate how a man of God brought me to my knees. Oh. Not in the way you are thinking. Shame on you...On my knees, praying for God to have mercy on my soul. I couldn't staunch the mental images and evil thoughts that ran through my head; thoughts of how I wanted to make him feel the same pain that I felt every minute of every day. What we had, on the fateful night, was not consensual. I prayed the wrath of God onto his soul. *** He appeared; quietly, at my side. I looked up to see a face so familiar. So kind, with eyes filled with empathy. I felt shame and turned away. Back to nursing my wounds and my drink. The bartender growled, "This man bothering you?" pushing up his sleeves to reveal what could only be prison tattoos. I shook my head then glanced at his fingers wrapped around the bottle of cheap whiskey I had been steadily draining for the past hour. A shaky letter, just below each knuckle, spelled out M.I.N.E. I hadn't noticed it. I was wrapped too tightly in a cocoon of misery. What could it mean? I really didn't care—as I tapped my empty glass on the sticky bar top. "Keep ‘em coming, Barkeep," I slurred. I was only joking and he laughed at my cliched attempt at humor. I joked when I drank. "You're pretty funny there, little lady," the Barkeep chuckled as he topped off my highball, adding a couple of fresh ice cubes. Then, aiming a snarl of sorts at the man still hovering around my barstool, he said, "Holler if you need anything," giving me one last look before he turned a corner, disappearing into what could only be the kitchen. Continuing to ignore the man, standing very close to me now, I sipped my whiskey, watered down by melting ice cubes. This was my new life. My dirty little secret. Slipping out as the sun was setting to a different bar each night. Drinking away the memory...hoping to find a glimpse of the person I was before the incident. What used to be an occasional indulgence had become an addiction in recent months. “Let me pay for your drinks,” a hand, speckled with age spots and wearing a thin gold wedding band, set a credit card down beside my empty glass. "Please come home, Sweetheart. This will only make things worse." He softly, so as not to startle me, rested his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at the kind eyes. He knew me so very well. He was the one who would never give up on me. A gentle man I could trust with my life and darkest secrets. "How did you find me, Daddy?" I reached up toward my shoulder and like a drowning victim going under for the final time, grasped his hand. “I’m ready to come home.” By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit Theme-Thursday Writing Prompt-Wrath [Reddit Writing Prompt] The world's potatoes suddenly go missing. It is your fault. We are an army. Earthlings, united on behalf of our home, planet Earth. One potato. Two potato. Three potato. Four. Five potato. Six potato. Seven potato. More. That was it. The agreed upon signal. An army of the strange alien creatures was just visible on the horizon, back-lit by the setting sun. This was the battle. The final World War (more like an Other-Worldly World War). The creatures seemingly showed up out of nowhere; their goal was to eat the world’s now trendy farm-to-table healthy food supply. By God, the Millennial's became incensed, recruiting the entire planet to their cause. “Farm-to-Table! It’s Your Health!” And “Eat Right!” And “Scurvy...The New World Order!” signs and billboards began popping up on every continent, shortly after the aliens began to ravage the planet. *** It was purely by accident that their weakness was discovered early on in the crop invasion. A single Snarferoneous (name origin: The appearance of a hose-like appendage, used as a mouth to suck up food.) apparently wandered a little outside of the safety zone of its newly formed crop circle, smack dab in the middle of a field in Blackfoot, Idaho, deemed the potato capital of the world. The weird creatures holed up…literally in the ground...began to awaken while more and more crop-circles began to pop up. As the beasts and circles started appearing simultaneously, all over the world (in rural areas) the long-time mystery of the crop circle and the purpose behind it became evident. They were just the exit-points, used by these anteater-sized alien creatures, once they awakened from a dormant state. They had maintained a state of hibernation possibly since the dawn of mankind. Were they alien? Scientists and farmers did not know; but what they did know was they popped out of the circles in droves and they were hangry, intent on eating the world's supply of fruits and vegetables, grasses and grains. It didn't matter...broccoli, lettuce, wheat, artichokes, apples, oranges, edible flowers and garnishes; even the rare forest truffle was not safe from the voracious appetites of these savages. The honey bees were on a rampage, swarming and stinging the beasts as they dipped their gnarly human-like hands into the hives to annihilate even the planet's supply of honey and its precious comb. The entire planet's fresh food sources were at risk. The particular Blackfoot Idaho beast, staggered out in a confused state, and was spotted by a group of migrant crop harvesters on their lunch break. The farm workers had not even noticed a crop circle in their vicinity earlier in the day as they went about their business, as usual, examining and separating the good potatoes from the bad. The men found a shady spot to sprawl out while eating and resting, all the while ribbing Paco-the-old-guy, laughing as Paco napped and used his backpack as a pillow. The gnarled creature ignored the men as it began snarfing up the precious potato crop at an alarming rate...using the hose-like appendage...where its mouth should be. The frightened men exploded to their feet and one burly thuggish guy pulled a gun out of his pack and began firing. The bullets bounced off of the creature...about as damaging as a mild hailstorm would be to a human. Paco-the-old-guy was awakened at the sound of gunfire. He bolted upright, bleary-eyed and cranky that his siesta was cut short. He picked up a potato, and using a jiggly muscle-less arm, just chucked it at the distracted Snarfer. It was a softly lobbed airborne-missile about as dangerous as a ping pong ball, but the creature went down hard, half of a potato still visible in its snout. Thus it was discovered...that while bullets, grenades, poisons, traps and smoke bombs could not deter this creature...a single lobbed potato could stop it in its tracks. The munitions factories of the world, after amassing the entire world's supply of PVC pipe, aerosol spray cans, matches and lighters, stopped production of all things "weapon" and began production of the lowly-and-often-scoffed-at potato gun. *** So here we are at sunset; the citizens of the planet aligned in solidarity and armed with potato guns, ready to destroy this common enemy of the world using every single potato on the planet if necessary. As the horde of Snarfs moves closer, the soon to be extinct potatoes begin flying. A new world-order, void of potatoes (but fortunately, still populated by farm-to-table restaurants), will soon be upon us; but that's alright. I never really like potatoes that much anyway. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt Shut Up & Write Prompt: The question, “Who are you?” is usually answered with a name. Only when you start asking the question over and over do you start digging into details not exterior to your identity. You are an artist, a gardener, or maybe an administrator, employee, or business owner. But you’re also how you see the world and the experiences you face. The simple question, “Who are you?” sparks so much juicy content. Beyond your name, who are you? Who am I? That is a great question. I guess the only way to answer is to tell you; it depends on what minute, hour, or day you chose to ask. Say, for instance, you catch me with a stylish beret atop my head, rushing down the street carrying a wooden box filled with brushes and tiny tubes of Winston and Newton oils in one hand while a blank 10" x 10" canvas is snugged under my arm. If, by chance, you were to stop me mid-stride and ask what I do; I might tell you that, "I am l'artiste very late for a class!" (Stated with an obviously French accent!) And that would be true. Or, if you see me shuffling along the sidewalk, pulling one of those dual-wheeled wire carts (the kind you see little old ladies pulling to and from the market) filled with crumpled aluminum cans, I might have another answer to your question. You would find me clutching a Grabber in my free hand, making it easier to collect the cans littering the sidewalk without actually touching them. You see, that day if you were to ask, I might tell you that I am disabled living on a strict budget. The cans, turned in at the recycling center for cash, help me make ends meet. That day I would drop the elegant French accent in favor of local Bronx-speak. That would also be true. On another occasion, if you spotted me in my stylish Lululemon running attire with the most recent and trendy jogging shoes on my size 9 feet (I would be running through Central Park, of course!), I would not stop if you questioned me. I must keep up the 8 minute mile pace...at any expense. Stopping would ruin my time and I couldn't have that. Since I wouldn't stop to give you an answer, I will tell you right now. That day, I would be training for the New York Marathon. I wouldn't win any ribbons at that pace; but I would at least finish. I would speak with the affected accent of the posh Upper-East-Siders. Believe it or not, that would be true. I never know who I will be on any given day. Who am I? Gidget or Theresa or Tiffany? That is the reality of my disease, Multiple Personality Disorder. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Shut Up & Write Weekly Challenge |