The Dog Named Sparkles...

This is another wonderful submission from another person being a goofball at Monkey Pickles.

My fingers froze above the keyboard and stayed that way. I tried to push them down but they wouldn’t budge. It was late morning. I had 2 pages written and needed 8 more, but writer’s block had swept in with a vengeance. My evil criminal mastermind stood waiting for me to inject some shred of humanity into his unfailingly dark past. The hero was looking for a flaw or two, anything to make him a bit more interesting.
“Focus,” I shouted to no one but myself, “stay focused.”
Smokey, my 90-pound shepherd/mastiff mix whimpered and covered his eyes with his paws.
I growled at my hands, at the computer, at everything. Writer’s block wasn’t going to get me, not this time. My characters waited. They eyed me suspiciously. They grimaced. They cackled. They called me names. Nothing helped. Still, I would not be distracted by this problem. No, I would not be distracted. I was going to conquer this problem through brute force.
A wet nose slopped against my left arm. Smokey looked up at me with those baby browns, leash dangling from his mouth. A large paw pushed against my thigh. He whimpered softly. His tail wagged twice.

“Go on,” my characters jeered, “you’re useless here. At least you can walk the dog.”

Smokey and I stepped out into the sunshine. Okay, I could stay focused on my story and get this job done at the same time. After three measured steps, he jerked me sideways. His nose just avoided a scraping as he ran this way and that, tail waving high and fast while he tracked some scent or other. I scolded the dog for getting distracted.
We took two more measured steps. He sniffed a bush, evidently enjoying whatever it told him about those who had gone before. Then he lifted a leg and left a message of his own. I sighed. What a bubble brain my dog was! Once that nose of his engaged, he didn’t know the meaning of discipline or focus.

Our heads turned at the sounds of scuffling feet and a ball smacking the ground nearby. The neighborhood kids yelled and waved and continued their basketball game. Smokey strained toward them. I pulled him back. His tail waved once before he turned back to our walk.
We continued together, a few steps ahead, then a tug to one side or the other. The criminal and the hero watched me being tossed in the ocean of my dog’s distractions. They grinned.

I forgot them and just enjoyed a cool breeze filled with the promise of spring. Birds, tiny ones from the sound of their calls, carried out a conversation nearby. Smokey continued his sniffing. We both jumped when the flock suddenly rose from the tree and flew away with all the appearance of a puffy dark cloud.

Back at my desk, my characters waited.

“You’re too serious;” I said, “you need a few distractions.”
My fingers danced across the keyboard. Within minutes they were far too busy to worry about their previous lives or character flaws. I laughed. I cried. I took care of all of that for them. Writer’s block was gone. The world was full of humor and surprise and possibilities.
Smokey’s fur tickled my arm. He leaned up against me angling for some petting. My characters relaxed and waited as we enjoyed another distraction.

Author: Judy Downing
Email: judy@judyandcharlie.com
Website: http://www.vapata.com/




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Adventures of Jaley Evans #3

Ohhh here goes Jaley again....

I have been working at this correspondent’s Mecca for a few months now. My credibility is growing as my expose counts rise. Journalistically I am in rapture. I am operating with a fabulous team that keep my leads juicy.

I have dug up an indication of my own and am scrambling to keep this undisclosed to the others. I lament over being deceptive but recognize that a breach in this trust would be detrimental to this flaming issue. “This is real Jaley” I prod myself in recognition. This is relevant. This is a dodgy situation and needs to be exposed. This is your big break!

I have been informed that a local Yule Log manufacturer has been fortifying its logs with Cannabis. These sweet holiday concoctions were being sold worldwide. To clarify for the layperson, Cannabis is an illegal drug known as “hemp” or “Mary-Jane”. I must jump into the call of duty and rectify this situation.

My “in” at the plant had prepared me proper work attire so that I will go undetected in my journey for evidence of this act. He laughed when he saw me in the paper jump suit and showed me how to write my name with Cheetos dust from his fingers on the front placket of my disguise.

“You will blend in well Jaley,” he said with another rumbled chuckle and a well-choreographed fall sequence.

This was a happy plant. Pink Floyd played in the background to motivate productivity and stamina.

The manager called together a group of employees. I was in deep. No turning back now. I quaked like a farmer in the Yucatan with a successful harvest. We all were served Yule Log cuttings. I ate 3 ravenously. Each tasted better than the last and made me feel more festive. There were many miss-steps, harmonious laughter fits and catchy songs about memory foam. This was an unusual way to handle a business meeting.

Chips were spread out like peanut butter on celery. There were lookouts at the door and some paper wearing figures were pacing as if nervously anticipating interruption. I went in for the kill.

“Excuse me sir” I said stammering uncharacteristically. “My name is Jaley Evans and I hear that Cannabis is being placed in these Yule Logs. What do you have to say about this?”

I awaited his refusal. I braced anxiously for his shock and denial of my absurd statement.

“Well how in the hell else would we sell this crap?” He stated strongly, eyes glazing over with humor.

He broke out in the familiar laughter of this plant assuring me that this was all an insidious inflammation of information. I had been led astray. My lead was now maliciously aimed and assumed false. This was a dead end to my break out story.

I stayed to eat more Yule Log chunks and sing about the hippopotamus of Africa that day. But I swear there were people watching us somewhere. As a seasoned reporter, I could not shake that feeling. I forced myself to laugh it off to enjoy more Yule Log, sour cream and onion chips and Pink Floyd.

I will possibly return to investigate when production of the Happy Easter Log begins in early spring.

Monkey Pickles would like to take the time to thank the writer @ The Invisible Seductress

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Adventures of Jaley Evans

Short note Monkey Pickles would like to take the time to thank the writer @ The Invisible Seductress for wnating to respond to the call of "Monkey Pickles Searching" a new character adventure has been created.

So it begins......

I was traveling by supply truck to a very secluded location. With every bump the truck’s cavity shook ominously. The terrain was very rocky and we were told we were on a perilous back road. Not to worry, our heavily armed confidant divulged, it is heavily patrolled and swept for land mines or ambush.
I had been blindfolded hours ago as to further protect the destination. It was only myself and one other journalist being given this elite access. I didn’t see him but I recognized his voice and the smell of fruit jam. It was Willard Scott, I was in the company of a virtuoso of news reporting. The mood was tense and I stayed alert to every inexplicable noise and motion. Willard, ever the professional, was calmly chatting it up with the guard while I nervously practiced my interview in my head. With every jar he selflessly protected my heaving chest with a nice firm squeeze. He even grasped my thigh when he thought I was slipping off the thin metal bench seat. We finally arrived at location and were lead into an empty metal corridor before being unmasked. Long and wide, it was devoid of character and sound bounced off every wall like a ricocheting bullet. The air was musty and a rancid oil smell lingered thickly. It was an aroma that I had dreamt about my whole fledgling career. I drank it in, like a Russian man gulping Vodka. Willard just smiled at my wonder and touched my waist caringly making sure I was stable for the walk. Thousands of bellowing footsteps later we arrived at the main door, which opened with a moan. The air wafting out of the room overtook me with emotion. The sounds of crumpling and reverberating voices were deafening. Then something utterly amazing happened! A worker screamed uncontrollably and all sound ceased in reverence. Her words were foreign but the tone of excitement palpable. I stood in the underground CPCIRL. The surreptitious Celebrity Potato Chip Image Recognition Lab. The underground location where the hallowed “Potato Chip President” display is being held. I stood in awe in the very facility Angelina, Brad and all of their spud’s faces are represented regally in potato chip form. Everyday, 350 expert Potato Chip Recognition Technicians peruse 300,000 bags of plain potato chips. I was there for the astonishing inauguration of a new celebrity chip. Willard embraced me and tenderly kissed my cheek close to my agape mouth. After intense image verification, the chip was deemed an authentic replica and the crowd erupted in celebration. Today the first ever potato chip image of Lady GaGa was found and in chip form, there was no bump.




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