What is Blogophilia? It’s a highly addictive blogging group where once a week, fellow writers submit topics, link their posts via Facebook or Myspace, and incorporate the weekly prompts into a blog post using whatever style or format they wish. It’s also a great way to clear out the mental cobwebs.
(Hard, 2pts): Incorporate an Ethiopian proverb
(Easy, 1pt): Mention Dancing with the stars
Final date to post BLOG: June 30, 2012 – Saturday, midnight Pacific Time
Final date to post ALL GUESSES: June 29, 2012 – Friday, midnight Pacific Time.
Soooo…I haven’t been on in a bit. Long story, but I’ve missed you all! 🙂
This post isn’t a story. It’s more of a snippet. You see, I’m a mean writer and I LOVE writing scenes that throw my youngest character, a 16 year old named Chloe, into situations with my oldest character, a 2500 year old vampire who goes by the name, Mr. Quin Smith, in this century. A little non-sparkling humor. Enjoy!
Mr. Smith kneeled, shirtless, in the backyard behind the garage of Bobbi’s rambling, blue farmhouse. Golden discarded leaves and old pine needles littered the ground. His legs were tucked underneath himself so that his tush sat on the soles of his bare feet. His poor knees carried the remaining weight of his body. Faded scars crisscrossed the muscles along his back and shoulders, pale reminders of past horrors in the dusky light. Wood smoke and earth perfumed the dubious autumn breeze that rustled the maple and oak trees surrounding the property. The metallic chip of a cardinal, shrieked out from the scrubby tree line. He held his arms away from himself, palms facing upwards, poised to catch the last dregs of sunlight. The sun’s round form had dipped below the horizon, leaving an amethyst sky mixed with crimson to the west. Sallow clouds streaked the heavens in thready waves, dancing with the stars that prematurely dotted the northeast sky.
“Meditation is not a spectator sport,” Mr. Smith said. He neither turned his head nor acknowledged my presence with any physical movement. The wind played with his dark brown hair. The snarled strands hung down past his shoulders in a low, thick ponytail. His hair might have been pretty if he’d bothered to do anything with it, or even brush it properly. As it was, his wavy locks just looked messy and unkempt.
“Aren’t you cold?” I wrapped my arms around my body. Even though I’d thrown on a sweatshirt, I was still shivering.
“I do not feel the temperature the way you do,” Mr. Smith said.
I rolled my eyes. “Dude! It’s freezing out. I know you’re communing with nature and crap-”
“But seriously, don’t you think you should be in the house or something?” The wind kicked up again as if in agreement. “You should at least put on a jacket.” Or some clothes, I thought to myself. All he had on were the pants from the expensive suit he’d worn earlier. Wasn’t he afraid they’d be ruined? Forget his shirt, what happened to his socks and shoes? Where did he think he was, dressed half-naked in late September? For Pete’s sake! This was Michigan.
“I. Am. Fine. I need to stay focused,” Mr. Smith said.
Two empty trash barrels, an Adirondack chair, a wooden bench, and a stack of four white plastic chairs, sat neglected on the nearby crumbling cement patio. A pile of bricks were stacked up against the siding, under the eaves of the garage, along with at least a cord of firewood. The piles were the kind that would be riddled with crevices and small spaces, the kind critters liked to live in. Though I knew it was too cold out for spiders to be active, I couldn’t bring myself to sit anywhere near the garage, just in case. I unstacked a white plastic chair from the heap of discarded looking patio furniture and tested it before I placed it on the leaf-ridden lawn. Mr. Smith glared at me.
“Do you want me to get you one, too?” I called out.
I shrugged. The chair’s seat had been stained with rainwater and dirt. I scrunched my hand up inside of my sleeve and used the cuff to swipe at the seat, flinging the most offending crud far away, before sitting in the discount chair. Hopefully, my jeans wouldn’t get too filthy, especially if I didn’t scoot around a lot.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing? I can learn how to meditate, as long as I don’t have to get dirty…or skyclad.”
Mr. Smith gave me a quizzical look.
“I know things,” I said, answering his unspoken question.
“Young lady, when I mentioned that meditation was not a spectator sport, that was not an invitation to join me.”
“Pffttt! I can be quiet. You were off in your own world for like ten minutes, before you even knew I was standing behind you.”
“That is not true.”
“Yes, it is. You were totally out of it.”
“I remained in complete control over all of my faculties.”
“Whatever,” I said, and repositioned my chair. Mr. Smith deliberately turned his attention away from me and focused on the task at hand, concentrating on the steady rhythm of his breathing. “So, do you meditate everyday?” I interrupted.
“Most days, yes.”
“Do you always meditate at sundown?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that, when I saw you kneeling on the ground, I couldn’t help but think of how vulnerable you looked. I mean, if I were an assassin, I would totally wait until you were meditating to gun you down, cut out your heart, and kill you.”
Mr. Smith rose to his feet. His hands were balled into tight fists at his sides. Though he wasn’t exactly handsome, he did have plenty of charming, righteous indignation. “And why would you fantasize about my demise?”
“Oh…it’s not just you. This is going to sound crazy, but I’m always thinking of possible ways that people could die. Falling off of ladders, car crashes, choking hazards, ballpoint pens, you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve come up with.”
“I see.” Mr. Smith squeezed the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Perhaps your time would be better managed working on your studies, rather than pondering the macabre.”
“I’m all finished with my homework,” I stated. “Besides, I think my brain will turn into mush if I read any more Shakespeare.”
“Yeah, I know it was a different time, but it’s hard to decipher the meaning behind all those flowery words. ‘What light in yonder window’…makes my head hurt! Why can’t they just say what they mean, you know? Oh, well. I’m majoring in literature and English classes, so what can I do?”
“Shakespeare. BAH!” Mr. Smith muttered to himself, then spat on the ground. “Man could hardly keep his head above water, spiteful loser, too. Very spiteful. No, I would not concern myself with reading Shakespeare’s rants.”
I giggled. I tried to hide my reaction by covering up my mouth with my hand, but then I remembered where my sleeve had been. Gross! Though Mr. Smith only appeared to be in his mid-twenties, chances were good that twenty-five hundred years worth of living, had colored his perspective.
“Forget that hack. You should focus on mathematics. That is a subject worthy of study.”
“Shakespeare was hardly a hack. Besides, I hate math, especially algebra. Math sucks!”
“Hmmh. I can advise and counsel, if you do not listen, let adversity teach you instead.”
“You will thank me later when you can balance your own checkbook.”
“I can balance a checkbook now. I’m just not old enough to own one.”
Have a great day!