Want to Help Me Write? Part 2: So You Did...

                  Random Quote: "I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done."        
                                                                        ~Steven Wright

Really? The page numbers, huh? Do you feel productive now? 
*scrunched nose*

Okay. Maybe not. But I can tell you that after the first post I sent out about having friends, family, and complete strangers help give me random writing ideas, I came up with some pretty sweet concepts for a new book (seeing "Catching Fire" may or may not have helped spark the writer inside as well). I am also currently working on an alternative "Cinderella" story. It's due by the end of this month. 
*chewing nails to stubs*

You can picture me doing that, can't you? 

However, this exercise has been productive. I took a few moments to do some deep breathing, clearing my mind, and picturing daisies crap. Then I got down to business. I looked at the thoughts you emailed or posted here to me (thank you for doing that! If you post and it doesn't immediately show, that's because if comes to me first. So, just do it!), and I wrote short scenes which opened my mind to new possibilities and new ways of looking at different sayings. I am excited to share with you what I came up with below. I have picked two out to share this week. I really hope you like them!!

HUGE shoutout to those who wrote in and gave me some ideas to play with, and now, here are the long awaited results. Comments, thoughts, and more writing ideas are ALWAYS welcome! :)

Here we go...
*still biting nails*

#1  "You have to be smarter than the tool you are working with."  Submitted by Anonymous

Saturdays are my favorite day of the week. You can sleep late, if so inclined, and having a hot cup of tea while watching the day start around you, can never be underestimated. This day starts like so many. Cup of hot, orange pekoe tea in hand, I slide onto the couch and begin to watch the sun climb into the sky. 

Sipping, I ponder the list in front of me. "Chores" at the top with "Errands" in the middle and " MUST DO" at the bottom. Perhaps it seems a bit out of order, but I know what I'll find at the bottom of that page under the "MUST DO" heading. 

Peeking under the heading I see it. Dread settles in the pit of my stomach. 

This day had started out SO well. I was going to start my mini load of laundry and clean the bathroom. Then I was going to go buy my wedding shower gift for Jess, my bestie. I knew EXACTLY what I am going to get her. One of those... nevermind. 

Really, it doesn't matter. 

Oh, I will still do those things. I'll still even enjoy them with a happy smile and pep in my step as I walk down the ailses. Yet, errands shall turn negative when I reach the grocery store. Where those things are. The flour, sugar, butter, eggs, milk, and other baking products. 

"Whhhhhhyyyyyyy???" I moan. 

No matter. It must be accomplished. So, I start. 

The morning passes quickly as I wash and dry clothes, shower, and prepare for the day. Hair is a breeze to work with since the almighty bun is finished in ten. Mascara and eyeliner later, I have just finished dressing for the day and have turned my attention to the dusting. Within three hours, all is complete and ready to go, and so am I. Seriously. Morning chores are no joke. 

I sweep into Bath and Body Works for a special bridal gift. I run into Sears for a convection oven I spotted on Jess's "Must Have" list, and finish at Barnes and Noble. Anyone who knows me realizes that a day of errands is never complete without a trip to the Holy Grail. The smell alone... That's for another day.

The last step is to head to the grocery store for those pesky necessities. 

Sighing, I leave Barnes and Noble (not empty handed!) and head to Hy-Vee. My favorite stop at 40 and Noland is busy today. I sneak through the parking lot before finding a space five hundred miles from the door. 

Happy for the exercise, I puff my way to the doors and head to the aisle of evil. There are all the necesities in one. Flour and sugar and those little, itty-bitty chocolate chips. They look so innocent. So yummy in their perfect package. 

I know better. 

I stuff all the ingredients into the shopping cart without even looking at them. One by one those packages of monstrous nightmares get thrown into the metal buggy as I glide from aisle to aisle. Although it would be great to linger and prolong the shopping madness and procrastinate the vile reality awaiting me at home, I know I have to leave. 

Checking out and heading home, I try to forget about what is coming next. As I drive, I mull over my options. 

I could tell them that my house burned down. Or the oven blew up. Or I developed amnesia. Perhaps I could sell the "I have the flu" lie? 

Okay. Lying is not the way to go. Considering I'm doing this for Sunday school, I don't exactly want to be struck by lightning or have the floor open up beneath me and suck me through to a torture chamber or something. One can only handle so much trouble as it is. 

Maybe mom will make them for me? My niece? 

Hey, I'm looking for an out here. Don't judge. 

I get home and put things away before assembling the troops. 

Deep breath. 

Recipe? Oh, there it is. Earbuds in, I look over the words on the page. Normally, I love reading. It's like manna from Heaven whenever I can indulge in a new novel. Recipes do not count. Getting roped into making cookies and having to read said recipe does not count. 

They do say that no good deed goes unpunished. Obviously they have no idea. 

And so. It begins. 

I measure. I melt. I mix. I add. I stir. I measure some more. And then it is time to use the big huge, white blendy thingy. One of those Kitchen Aids. 

It's beautiful. 

It's terrifying. 

I can't find those dang instructions anywhere! 

I have looked. In every nook and cranny, I have looked! Those instructions have gone the way of the wind. Can you lose a hand using one of these gadgets? 

Picking up one of the mixing tools, I wonder if it's missing from some hospital somewhere. Or if Hook escaped Neverland. I'm open to suggestions because I know this baby can't go on this Kitchen Aid. 

Oh wait. Yes, it does. It fits right there. Oh. Well, do you stir the rest of this with that? 

I put the metal bowl in its slot. All the dry ingredients are stirred within and ready for the wet. Someone told me this mixer would be a good idea. Perhaps they were drunk?

I stretch my arms out and hear the bones crack. It sounds kinda ominous. Wiping my brow, I push the top of the mixer down so that it clicks into place. I hold my breath and move the lever to start. 

Nothing happens. I look at the wall. Yep, white plug in. Check. 

I search all over the body of the mixer. The power seems to be on. I turn it off and check the attachment. No, it's secure. Then what's wrong?

This can't be happening. I'm supposed to make 5 dozen cookies for the kids choir tomorrow morning. I CANNOT have this HAPPEN!!!

Panic is setting in. My eyes are widening. I am frantically searching the countertop and Kitchen Aid for solutions. I turn it on. I turn it to the number 4. I turn it off. I move it back and forth and back and forth at least twenty times. 

My heart is beating wildly. I am breathing even more rapidly. Hyperventilation is coming. I can feel it. Am I going to have to go out and buy a NEW one? Is it broke? Did I break it by TOUCHING it?!?!?! Mom let me borrow it. What will she say? Is there one of those small, hand mixers somewhere in this kitchen still? 

In my panic, I miss the front door opening and my mother entering. The next second she's in front of me. 

She finds me on my hands and knees looking through the cupboards. Searching, searching, searching for something to help me out of this predicament. 

I look up. She's standing there with her long, red hair twirling all around and landing at her hips. I watch her watching me. There's a funny little smile on her face. 

"What are you doing?" She asks with this look of disbelief.

"Um, I'm looking for the hand mixer."

"Why? I told you to use the Kitchen Aid. It's faster. What's wrong?"

"Um, well, I think I broke it."

"Broke it? What did you do?" She asks while going to the sink to wash up and then head back to the counter to look at the mixer.

I close the doors to the cupboards I had frantically been looking through. I stand. I clear my throat. 

"Well, I touched it."

The look she gives me is a cross between an eye roll and a snort with an open-mouth shake of the head thrown in for good measure.  

"Becky, you can't just touch something and break it. That's ridiculous. You know how to bake. Did you check the plug?" 

"Yeah. I did. Twice. It's plugged in. I turned it on and off too. I just don't know what's wrong with it. Do you think it needs batteries?" 

Mom starts laughing at me. I can see this is going to take a few moments so I just stand and wait. She's wiping her eyes by the time she's finished. Personally, I don't think there's anything funny about my predicament. If she's going to help then I'd appreciate if she'd just get on with it. 

After about five minutes, I think we're good. Oh. Wait. No, she's finsihed. 

"You don't put batteries in a mixer. They don't come that way. That's why it has a cord."

"Well, at least I'm making suggestions here. Will you please stop laughing and help me get it to work. Otherwise, I will need to mix by hand or find the hand mixer. I have FIVE dozen of these to finish before tomorrow. I need help."

"Uh, Becky?" 

"Yeah?" I'm looking at her look at the wall. Then I watch her unplug the mixer from the wall. Then I watch her plug it back into the wall. 

"What? Is it the outlet?" I ask, completely mystified. 

"No. It's the plug."

"What do you mean?"

"It was the wrong cord. You had the blender over here plugged in and not the mixer. Didn't you check it?" 

"Of course!" I state indignantly. Didn't I just say that I had checked the plug twice? I mean, come on, I'm not an idiot. 

I look where she's pointing. I see the two cords. I see the one that has a faint black line down the middle. It's the blender's cord. It's the cord I'd recently seen in the plug. Like, two seconds ago. I glance at the new cord. This one is all white. 

I walk to the left two steps and push the lever on the mixer. 

Whhhhhiiiiiirrrrrrrr. It starts right up.

"I see." It's all I got. 

"Yeah. With all the time it took you searching and trying to figure this out, you probably could have had them mixed and in batches already. How did you not know it wasn't the right cord?"

I shrug. I have no defense here. Let's not make it worse. 

Mom shakes her head and walks out of the kitchen. 

I stare at the plug. I stare at the mixer. I stare at the chocolate chips. 

"You're going down tiny, evil ones. You may be delicious, but you have cost me much more than money today. For that, you will pay." 

And so. It begins. 

Moral of the story: "Be smarter than the tool you are working with." 

THE END

#2  "I saw the words 'writing horse' in your blog and there happens to be an illustration of a beautiful horse sitting next to me and I know you love horses, so it couldn't be a coincidence, right?? 

So what came to my mind was life from a horse's perspective, like what a horse would say about life. The ground beneath their hooves, the feel of the wind in their mane, the freedom of running through a wide open place, the touch of a kind horse-lover's hand. How a horse see's the world, what we can learn from them. There is something about a horse's eyes that shows such a strength and love that cannot be described by me, only in pictures in my mind."     Submitted by Cyndi Vreeland

When I look around, I feel the air. I hear it. I smell it. The air keeps me alive in more than one way. The wind is my cooling stream in the dead heat of summer. It is the scent of fresh cut grass or predators marching undercover. 

I stop. 

I listen. 

For only by listening, can you truly hear what the earth has to say. I tilt my head to the left and search my neighbors. They are all tall and sturdy, as am I. 

No one here is afraid of his brother. 

We do not argue amongst ourselves. If there is strife between those in charge, they deal with it immediately. Forcefully. Then, it is at an end. There is no more said between the rivals. The loser walks away with his or her head down, but does not come against their leader any longer. 

That whistle in the breeze is so soft you almost miss it. It whittles through the grass blades and brings the sweet smell of fresh life into the air. Can you hear it? Feel it? Smell it?

The temperature is dropping. The coolness will bring us together as it often does at night. One next to another. One head resting upon the sturdy back of a friend. 

I close my eyes. The smell tickles my nostrils and makes them itch for a moment. I sneeze loud and clear for all to hear. This does not interrupt their crunching. They are used to my sensitive nose. 

I lean from the left legs to the right. My head drops closer to the ground. 

All is well. 

Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

My fellow mates eat around me, secure in the knowledge that we are safe. The air brings its pleasure and no warning of ill will. 

I am satisfied.

My lips nibble the tasty treats beneath me. They are cool and slender and taste sweet upon my tongue. My large teeth make easy work of their tender shoots. A little stringy, it goes down in one gulp. 

Dogs bark in the distance. A door is opening and closing from far away. 

We know what will happen soon, but we ignore all that is and enjoy what we have before us. 

Enough of eating, I amble toward the far left. Right, left and then left, right. My legs walk in unison and against each other all at once. Amazing how most of life can be summed up in that way. Walking together and against one another as the days progress and proceed. 

Many do not think we know these things. But we do. 

I keep going until I reach my destination. I love to walk. The grass treats bend beneath each hoof and bounce right back. They tickle some places along the bottom, but it's over too quick to notice. I snicker as one particular shoot finds its way in a tiny nook and tickles a bit more aggressively. 

Before long, I am at the fence. I rest my long head against a post and gaze around me. There are trees everywhere. How tall they are. The darkness between them calls for me to investigate. Maybe one day I will. Perhaps she will come and take me for a ride between those trees like she once did. It seems so long ago. 

A strange feeling settles over me. This need to break from the bars surrounding and keeping all of us in this little nook of delicious grass. The feeling positions itself deep inside of me. It will return again. This feeling always does. For now, I am content to remember.

Rides past the bars. Running free. Galloping through the grass and trees. There were flowers. They smelled even sweeter than the grass. They were big and beautiful. Oh, those smells! It was a feast just to be near them. To run through them. 

I remember. 

How my heart skipped and beat against my chest until I felt it through my legs. The ground sturdy, hard beneath me until I thought I could eat up every piece of it with my hooves alone. The land never ended. I wanted to keep going, keep searching, keep exploring. Never let this funny thrill inside of me end. I had never felt so alive. Like I was made to run through those trees. 

Inhale, exhale. 

Snort.

The flies get a bit too close for comfort. I snap a warning to one. 

Her hands would wrap inside my mane. I could feel them clinging near my ears. That piece she put into my mouth wasn't as tight as at first. She wasn't holding onto it any longer. She was holding onto me. It made me feel as if she believed in me to know the way. Somehow, I did. Through this place I had never explored, I knew exactly where we were going. Far from here. Far from the bars. We were escaping. I could feel it was her desire as plainly as my own. 

We were escaping. 

Her fingers had tightened as I showed off for her. I slid around one tree and then another. I slowed here and there to observe the new terrain. When I saw the next strip clearly enough that there were no obstacles in our way, I could see it all clearly, I sped up once more. Continuously, I felt the initial tightening and then the slight slack. The let go. 

Trust, she called it. I could feel it. That word showed me how far I could go. Its euphoria was electric. Like a lightning storm flooding the earth, those same feelings pumped through every part of me. Whenever I thought I would stop or she would pull me to a close, I stretched forth my legs again and again. The green disappeared beneath me. Each pound of hoof to earth was release. 

I shouted at her. Can you feel it? Are you happy too? Will you stay with me? 

The words stayed inside me, but I tried to show her. 

Our time ended. Too soon. 
Huffs of breath echoed as she called me to retreat. Turn back. 

We returned to our home where she slid off my back and took those contraptions from me. I only tolerated them because of her. Because she gave me freedom. The taste of the beyond. 

Those rides ended. Too soon.

I haven't seen her in so long. So many sunrises and sunsets. So many cold and hot nights. I watch there between those trees. I watch and wait. Maybe she will find me. She will step between those trees and ride me back there once more. 

The trees do not change. The grass grows. My friends are still here. 

Darkness comes. The light is leaving us again. Tomorrow will be another chance to see her. I back away from the fence and turn around. I amble toward my family of friends. They all are watching me. Their ears go forward, backward, relax. They do not need to ask. They know. Each knows what I am thinking. They have had the same experiences. We do not share them. We tuck them aside and give hope over to what will come next. 

Deep sigh.

I stop next to one old chief. He leans a bit to the left. Meandering to his side, I slip beside him and take his weight. Others come. We fill in. A body here. A head there on this one's back. We nestle together knowing the cold will drive us into our dark boxes soon. Relishing our closeness, I lean my head against a young, new friend. Here we share our comfort and strength and warmth. 

Maybe, she will come tomorrow, I think before my eyes shut and head rests. 

There's always hope for tomorrow. 
Infinite hope. 

THE END

Sometimes being given a prompt can help release pent up thoughts you didn't even know you had. I hope you enjoyed my short stories based off your kind suggestions. Perhaps it was what you were thinking or hoping for, or perhaps, maybe, I surprised you.

I hope you find and keep hope in whatever you are doing. And now, I must go write... more... 

~Love and Hugs!! :)

Inspired by response and comments, I thought I would republish my blog post with a picture to go with the second story. This is a painting I did seven years ago. I thought it fit with the "horse story". :) I call this my impressionistic/realist stage of life. Basically because I'm not a great artist, but I love to draw and paint. Hope you enjoy this extra tidbit!! :)