Tag Archives: creative writing

Unexpected Writing Prompts – Chargoggagoggmachvhauggauggagoggchaubunagunagamaugg

 

I’ve been doing this social-networking-lets-be-friendly-with-other writer thing for over a year. It hasn’t been doing that much for me. I’ve met some lovely people online. I’ve even started to enjoy ‘Tweeting.’ I have talked to some really inspiring authors and I’ve gotten a lot of push to keep writing and continue to do better.

Author Austin Briggs http://austinbriggs.com/ gave me a a writing prompt, for a short-short story about a boy and his dog. The audience was to be for 7-year olds. We collaborated on the piece and I wrote it below. Generally I do not write children’s stories, I’m more a horror girl.

 

Austin gave me a random fact and I incorporated it into the story. I figured I would share the story.

 

————— 

There are times when seven-year-old boys really hate their dogs.

 

Like when the dog tries to drown them in a lake after screaming Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg for over an hour.

Mongoose is no Lassie-dog. She would not save me from a well if I feel in.           

I was worried about her at first, all she was repeating since we got to our family vacation at the Webster Lake in Massachusetts was a 45-letter word I know isn’t part of the English language.

 

Sometimes I wish I never taught my dog to speak.  Every kid on the planet wants a talking dog, until they get a talking dog. She gets stuck on repeat.

 

It isn’t bad enough that I’m drowning but now something is tangled around my leg and dragging me out of the water.

 

Probably a giant octopus. I bet they really like the taste of little boys.

 

I’m pulled out of the lake and come face-to-face with a man who isn’t my father. Actually I’m pretty sure he isn’t in the same century as my father. The guy looks like he walked out of the Native American section of the Museum of Science and History.

 

“Look at this strange fish. Part boy, part duck,” grunts the man.

 

            That reminds me that mom made me wear a duck float with my snorkeling gear. She didn’t want me to drown, only die of embarrassment.

 

“Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg,” my dog says, standing beside the Indian, wagging her tail, like the traitor dog she is.

 

“All boy,” I grumble, untangling myself from the net before sitting up and looking around. “This.. doesn’t look like Massachusetts anymore.”

 

 “This is Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, “Fishing Place at the Borders — Neutral Meeting Grounds.” The Indian stands there, thoughtful for a moment, “Massachusetts your tribe?”

 

  “No, it’s… well…” the man is just staring at me with that blank expression adults get when they’re really not going to understand anything I say. “Don’t worry about it. Can I have my dog back?”

 

    “This smart animal yours?” He says, patting Mongoose on the head. She rolls her eyes up at him, tongue rolling out of her mouth, with the biggest grin with a look of a dog that has never been petted in her entire life.

 

    “Yeah… She just tried to drown me in your Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg.”

 

    “Well duck boy, what you trade for dog? You catch any fish?”

 

    “No but my duck will keep you from drowning according to the code of moms’,” I say, slipping it off to hand it to him.

 

    “Moms do know best,” he says after some consideration and takes the float.

 

    “ChargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamauggI” Mongoose howls dragging me into the water again. I wonder if this really is a fair trade. I should have left her with the Native Americans. Maybe they could teach her something useful like how to herd Buffalos.

 

I come out on the other side to see mom.

 

                “Where is your float?”

 

                “Did you know this lake is called Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg?” I ask quickly changing the subject.

 

    “Where did you learn that?”

 

    “The Indians told me.”

 

    “What Indians?”

 

    “The ones that took my float. I traded it to get Mongoose back.”

 

    “Ah, I see.” She says, not seeing but going along with it. Oh well, I tried.

    “Webster Lake!” Mongoose says bounding up to us.

 

    Mom looks down at the dog, “Did she just say?”

 

            “Don’t worry about it mom. All she said was bow wow wow. Like all good puppies do.”

 

            Except she’s not a very good puppy and she most certainly did say Webster Lake. 

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Ebbing Relations – A poem

Ebbing Relations

 

I wanted to see the

waves and candy-coated winter sky.

Last seconds spent

in each other’s company.

 

The sea crashes in bursts

of blues, black, and opaline.

Breath apparent as

we drink in dry air.

 

Blackberry flavored skies

slip above us. Feet

scraping on clumps of

sand, shell, and rock.

 

He sings in bright

outrageous colors

that clash again the

mysterious shades of my song.

 

Sweeping back the tide tastes

the color of the ground.

Content with being

a fleeing thing.

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Job Accepted!

I GOT MY FIRST JOB.

EVERYONE, IT IS HAPPY DANCE TIME!

I know, you’re all wondering, how much does it pay? Are you rich yet? Can you afford that very expensive family vacation to the Big Island Hawaii?

 

Eh… not even close.

But I did get my first job and it is a step in the right direction. I wrote an advertisement to an iPhone app. Not hugely exciting, but the type of app it was allowed me to be dirty. To be steamy. To write in a way that makes you think the app is winking at you while you read it.

 

Hey there sexy, come buy me now, lets get steamy together.

 

No, it wasn’t a porn app. But I did it and I got paid for it. It made me feel quite pleased with myself. It was also writing in a way I’m not use to writing anymore.

 

It also didn’t take that long for my job to be accepted. At first when I was doing this I figured I would never be hired because people bid so low. I’m sorry; I’m not going to write your 500 word article for $3. That’s insane. Kiss my ass. People were bidding THAT LOW.

 

I’m battling against people in India, Philippines, Indonesia, countries where $3 can buy you a lot. I’m thinking, there is no way I’m going to make anything on this website.

I got the job though. Apparently I know the right things to say. I can’t say what those right things are, I really just speak with my heart and how I feel on the matter, but it all goes in the right direction.

So happy dance all of you!

 

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The Head-less Writer

I’m a writer.

You’re thinking, duh, how else would you be blogging? 

Or

What do you have published?

Or

So, you have no job, probably weigh 600 lbs, don’t shower, and sit on a computer all day trolling Facebook and YouTube.

What claims do I have to being a writer? I’m not 600 lbs and I do shower, especially on Wednesdays, and I’m to cute to be a troll. I do have publications from High School that really don’t count because all copies are to be burned when I get famous.

But I am a writer. I say this because I see the world in words. Everything I see has a sentence that type through my head. How you are reading this is how I see things when I close my eyes.

I’m so obsessed with words that I love watching foreign movies to read the subtitles. I watch American shows with subtitles to read the dialogue.

I get mad at my husband for calling me instead of texting me.

Writing is my bliss.

I want to write the world. I want to play God. I want to make (fictional) people suffer if they don’t worship me. I send them to hell, I give them heaven, I generally kill them in horrible ways….

I’m a horror/fantasy writer. It’s a weird thing to be because you scare yourself. A lot. And you see things differently, a lot.

The best way to explain this is to go backwards in time to a baby shower I attended. We played one of those baby shower games where we had to name the movie. All the movies had the word ‘baby’ in it. So the hostess would say “Blank dollar baby” and the answer would “Million Dollar Baby.”

One of the movies she said was “Baby on…”

And I immediately shout out “Fire.”

Everyone stares at me. After all I’m holding a seventh month old in my lap, my own son. I’m wearing a pretty dress, I have a rainbow-beaded necklace on my four-year old daughter made for me- why in the world would I think of a baby being on fire. We all have a good laugh about it, I explain that it could be a pet name for someone. There could be a comma in there or an explanation point at the end that makes that title okay.

Let us take this example further into the same event. 

The theme for this particular baby shower was owls and the pregnant friend is having a baby girl. Another good friend of mine is also having a girl and I plan on helping her with her baby shower. While trying to find a gift for girl number one this conversation comes up with girl number two:

Friend: “I find owls to be extremely creepy. I don’t want any creepy owls staring down at my baby.”

Me: “Well butterflies are attracted to dead bodies, how is that any better?” (Her daughter’s room is done with a butterfly theme.)

You’ll probably understand as you read more of what I blog. To put it simply and in picture form: horror writers/thinks/fans can’t just be the Queen of Hearts. They have to be the Queen of Hearts with her head chopped off.

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