Things I've Learned and Some Things I'm Grateful for...

There's a lot that's been going on in my life right now, which would be a pretty good reason why I haven't written a blog post in about a week.  I'd say that it was because I got a job, but unfortunately that would be a falsehood.  But really, lots of good things and lots of just things have been going on, and so it feels about time for another list.  I have a list of things I've learned at home...but I'm thinking I'll post that after I've been here for six months.  One more month to go.  Well, half a month.

Anyway.  Here's a list of things that I've learned recently, and a couple of things that I'm grateful for.

1.  Everyone in the Chicago artists community knows one another.  I'm convinced that if I mention the name of somebody artistic and based in Chicago, my boss at Here's the Story will know them.  (See: Robbie Q. Telfer)
2.  You really should drink that super tall glass of water and swallow some sort of painkiller after a night of drinking, and then your hangover will magically either not exist or be manageable.
3.  Superior is the name of an ambulance company and they like putting their name on the backs of their EMTs.
4.  You shouldn't be surprised if you make someone feel/look awkward if you ask them if you can write a poem about them.  This is not a normal question!
5.  The most actively energetic booth at a street festival will be the one that performs literary related things rather than the people selling books.  Go figure.
6.  "Where are all the college aged people?"  Oh wait.  It's summer.
7.  Knowing that someone (for example, your boss) appreciates your writing abilities is really awesome.
8.  Apparently Tuesday evening is a popular time for traveling by train.
9.  It doesn't matter what it's for, being asked for an autograph will always make me feel like a rock star.
10.  Oh, you want me to read the poem I wrote aloud?  Why yes, I will do that for you.
11.  Poetry dispensed from a gumball/vending machine will be the most popular poetry.
12.  "I read your poem yesterday, and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever read.  And I'm a librarian!"
13.  You will get hugs when your poetry is deemed good.
14.  The most terrifying experience is watching someone read your poem while you're standing right there.  ("Do I watch their face for a reaction?  Do I pretend I'm not here?  Do I ask them about it when they're done?")
15.  There are some people that you make friends with and you just want to punch your fist into the air over your head in triumph when you succeed.
16.  Third party outsiders are usually the best for relationship advice.  Even better when the asking for this advice or the venting doesn't make them feel awkward.
17.  Spontaneity.
18.  You have no idea how many different interpretations can result from the instructions of "eat lunch with a stranger."
19.  I am not hitting on you if I ask how old you are.
20.  When you manage to pack three days worth of clothes in your purse that can apparently eat the world...this will be a gigantic accomplishment, and you have full rights to gloat.

So Saturday and Sunday I participated in the Printers Row Lit Fest where I stood at the Here's the Story table and sold poems from my Poem-A-Day Project out of this gumball/vending machine that I'll have pictures of soon.  It was a really neat experience because so many people walked by and commented about how cute the idea was, and a TON of people stopped to buy poems.  Some of them asked me to read them aloud, so the performer in my obliged, and some asked me to sign them in case I ever get famous.  I was overwhelmed by the people who told me they were good or beautiful or fun or funny because, well, for some reason I didn't expect to get much except a couple quarters.  I set my expectations low so I don't get disappointed.  Another thing that came out of Lit Fest was the experience of hanging out with other people from Here's the Story, and talking to them really made me feel more a part of the Here's the Story family.  Strange how hours under the sun out on the street can bring you closer to people.  Shared experiences for the win.

One thing that disappointed me was a father tugging on his son's hand at Lit Fest and telling the little boy, "No, those aren't candy, they're poems.  You don't want those."  I'm not saying that because I wanted to sell a poem to a small child, I mean to say that I was disappointed because to me, being at a lit fest means exploring new literature, new ways of reading, or creating written work.  If an 8-year old kid wants to buy a poem out of a gumball machine, he should.  If he wants to read a poem at all, he should.  It's stuff like that comment, that tugging arm, that make me sad.  I was surrounded all weekend by people who love the written word and who love writing or reading, and so to stop someone from reading something feels like one of the worst and most violent actions you can take towards a person.  We're not really talking literally, so we're ignoring maim and torture.  I just kept thinking that if that kid had bought a poem, what would have happened?  Maybe he would have thrown it out at the next trash can (though I would hope he would recycle).  Maybe he would tear it up and use it as confetti.  But maybe he would have read it and it would have inspired him to write something, whether it be a poem, an essay, a story, or a grocery list.  Maybe, just maybe, that little kid was a writer in the making but he had a father telling him that he "doesn't want those" poems.

"My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody."

- Wilkie Collins

The Poem-A-Day Project

The Poem-A-Day Project started on a whim in September of 2011.

(BRIANNA and KATIE are two college students, walking back to their residence hall on September 1, 2011.  It's a beautiful day, and they're crossing a parking lot.)

KATIE:  Hey, you know that challenge where you write a poem every day for a month?

BRIANNA:  Yeah, that's crazy.  I don't know if I could do something like that, I'd probably give up the first week.

KATIE:  Yeah...

(pause)

BRIANNA:  Wait a minute...it's September 1st!  Wanna give it a try?

KATIE:  Yeah, okay!

On that day, it began.  Every day I put a poem in Katie's mailbox, and she became September's "Poem Keeper."

It didn't stop after September.

Each month I had a different Poem Keeper who I gave the month's poems to in order to keep myself from reading the poems and judging them in their rough and initially unpolished forms.  Poem Keepers could read the poems, but they couldn't talk to me about them until the end of the month when they returned the entire month's worth of poems and I read them from the perspective of never having read them before.

I thought I might stop after six months.  And then I thought maybe I would stop after I graduated from university.  Then I figured I might as well finish up the calendar year of 2012, but it didn't stop there either.

At this point, I've been writing one poem every day for almost two years, documenting my life and writing some really weird or fun things in a poetic form, and I have no idea if there's ever going to be a point at which I say that I'm done with this project.

What's in store for the Poem-A-Day Project now?  I'm looking for a way to bring my poems to the world.  At Printer's Row Lit Fest, I'll be at the table for Here's the Story with a gumball machine that'll dispense poems in little capsules.  And I'm working on putting together a manuscript of my favorite poems from the project.

Thanks for reading!  I'm always looking for tips, guidance, advice, or shouts of encouragement, so feel free to leave a comment, I will read them all!

"That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out."

- Andrea Gibson

Free Books!

Parts of this are true.  Can you spot the fictional parts?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just the other day I got a text message from a stranger: free books at my house.  As I was typing out my response, it occurred to me that clearly this person knew me...because this was the most perfect way to kidnap me.  But when I sent my response, it was: where do you live?

I hopped into the rickety gray mini van that my brother and I share, and I cruised around the block as I waited for an address.  It wasn't long before I got a response that sent me a couple blocks south of my home, and around the block to a garage sale.  It was the garage on the corner, and I figured I would just drive past and look to see if the books were any good because I didn't need to get out of the car and talk to the creeper who texted me.

When I drove past in the wheezing gray mini van, I took a good look at the garage, and at the people who were running the joint.

The garage was full of books.  I kid you not, I'm fairly certain that every inch of the shelving in that garage was covered in books.  And the people who were running the garage sale were this cute old couple, neither of whom were bent over a cell phone and texting like mad.  In fact, from that distance I could tell that this couple's thumbs were probably not quite nimble enough to text with the speed required to have gotten me here so soon.  I figured I was safe, so I parked the mini van around the corner and strolled up to the garage sale.

"Hi," I said, smiling timidly.  "I heard there were free books here?"

The man looked a little grumpy about this announcement, but the lady was cheerful as she smiled at me and gestured at the shelves stuffed with books.

"Of course, take as many as you'd like!" she said, the very picture of a grandmother presenting her grandchildren with a bowl full of fresh Halloween candy.

"Take 'em all," the man growled, crossing his arms over his chest like a toddler in time out.

"Just ignore him, he doesn't understand the romance of a good book," the lady said, waving her hand at her husband.  I nodded sagely and plunged into the garage in search of a good book.  Or five.

Now keep in mind that I had just gotten home from the library where I picked up three books that were on my list and one book because the title Alien Tango intrigued me in an absurd sort of way.  So I had plenty to read.  There was no reason for me to pick up a new couple of books.  But I kept finding books.  I had my arms full of books within fifteen minutes because I decided that my best tactic was to be picky.  I could probably have fit a garage full of books in the mini van, but the problem would be when I got all those books home.

Smirking that I hadn't fallen for the free books trap just to get kidnapped, I thanked the couple profusely and made my way back to the car where I examined my finds.  I was halfway through my stack when I found a book that I don't remember picking up.

"That's weird..." I mumbled, slumping in the backseat of the mini van and paging through the unrecognized book.  As I flipped through the pages, it felt like the pages were starting to stick to my fingers with a velcro kind of urgency.  By the time I got to the end of the book, I felt my fingers sticking to the pages, the very tips of my fingers disappearing into the paper.  "What the hell..."

And with a gigantic slurp, the book swallowed me whole.  It was in that moment that I realized that I had been kidnapped after all.

"Be awesome!  Be a book nut!"

- Dr. Seuss

Challenge Day 10

In the flurry of job applications and good news and bad news and no news and multiple rejections in the course of a couple days, I've kinda neglected my blog.  I feel not too bad about it though because there haven't been any verbally angry outcries missing the randomness that belongs here, so if there's anyone out there missing consistent blog posts here...speak now or forever hold your pieces.  If not, I'll just stick to my non-existent schedule.

After writing today's poem for my Poem-A-Day Project on the actual day to which it belongs, I've decided to tackle another prompt from the daily writing challenge.  I'm making such progress.

Day 10: Start a story with: "She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled..."

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled, running her fingertips along the edges and scratching at the hinge at the back of the box.  There was a certain amount of triumph to be felt when in possession of a box such as this, and it's true, Adelaide felt all the triumph and satisfaction that came with having a box just like this stowed away in her pocket.  In fact, as she walked away from her lunch break with Stan, she was downright smug.

Stan was a nice guy with calm brown eyes, he had a steady job and a nice apartment in a good neighborhood, and she enjoyed spending her weekends with him.  He'd even made a good impression on her parents, and he couldn't take his eyes off of Adelaide's little sister.  But he was always faithful.  A nice guy.

And Adelaide herself had a pretty decent job as a paralegal with the promise of advancement sometime in the near future.  Provided she keep smiling at the elderly boss who was always nice about complimenting her sweater set.  He tended to notice the best of everything.

Adelaide shifted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, and found herself drawing the box out of her pocket.  She couldn't help herself, she had to take another peek before she had to go back to work.  Slowing to a stop off to the side on the walkway up to her office, she held the box on one palm and carefully opened it with her other hand.  Nestled inside the box were two calm brown eyes that wouldn't get another chance to look at her sister again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I really hated the idea of going with the very obvious "engagement ring" here.  Maybe that's just where my mind goes, but that's where it went when there was a female touching a box that was pocket sized and smiling.  So if I'm the only one that thinks engagement ring when that happens, I'd like to know.  So there you go.  Hope you didn't lose your appetite.

"People have to talk about something just to keep their voice boxes in working order so they'll have good voice boxes in case there's ever anything really meaningful to say."

- Kurt Vonnegut

Fowl Play

Remember that time when I told you that I was going to write a poem based on the prompt "foul play" for a writing group?  Remember also that I said I was going to write about theatrical chickens?  Well, I came through.  We're not going to talk about syllables and verb tense though...but if you really want to talk about it...send me an owl or something.

Fowl Play

By: Brianna

The chickens casted a comedy

to perform out in the yard.

The rooster wrote out the melody

(it really wasn’t quite hard).

Rehearsal was held in the henhouse

with hens dancing around eggs.

They were directed by the ruffed grouse

who told them to shake a leg.

Opening night, the cast was nervous

as they gathered out on stage

to do the author a disservice

would certainly cause outrage.

The field mice crept in for the curtain

and brought with them their fine cheese

twould be a good show, they were certain

as long as nobody sneezed.

When they fin’ly reached intermission

the play was going quite well

without a last minute addition

of anything that might smell.

Lovers kissed for the happiest end

and all came out for a bow

by then the poultry death blade descend…ed.

It’s chicken for dinner right now!

Challenge Day 9

It has been a really rough week.  Lots of things happening, lots of people being seen, lots of hearts being broken, and lots of food being eaten at restaurants paid for with money that I don't actually have.  This is my life right now.  And this is why I'm writing a response to the daily writing challenge.

Though this is going to be difficult, because I don't really have one favorite city.  Oops?  And we're not going to talk about how these are probably not cohesive "stories," but whatever.  Anyone going to call me on it?  I should also mention that these are fictional.  Just sayin'.

Day 9: A story in 250 words or less about your favorite city.

Chicago

I’ve lived in this city for my entire life, I even went to school south of this city, and when people said they were from my city, I was allowed to get upset.  Because they were from the suburbs.  But I never really got to know Chicago for whatever reason.  I suspect it was fear.  Of muggers, gangs, tourists, everything.  This fear permeated my being even when you grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the El.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” you said with the grin that always made me melt like cheese in the microwave.

“I don’t know…” I waffled, like I do.

“Trust me?” you said, raising your eyebrows and peering over the tops of your glasses.

“Never,” I joked.  But it was seeing the reflection of the skyline in your glasses that finally convinced me that everything could be okay.

Paris

“I don’t want to go with just Grandma, it’ll be a total drag.”

“Alright, I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

A six hour plane ride, and we landed in Paris, France, the place I had been dreaming of since I realized French was a foreign language.  The only problem being that I never imagined I would have to cart around my grandmother who doesn’t speak a syllable of French.

“Pare—lay vooz English?” she asked, prompting a groan from me and a sigh from my mother.  Then Grandma whips out a handful of Euros and promptly informs us that she will be paying for everything during our trip.  And suddenly I can see all of my frustrations just melting away…

"Yet once you've come to be part of this particular patch, you'll never love another.  Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies.  But never a lovely so real."

- Nelson Algren, Chicago: City on the Make

Challenge Day 8

Remember that time when I said that I was going to do a daily writing challenge and then failed so miserably, but then kept writing based on those challenges anyway?  This is day eight.  For the record, I'm not too keen on writing this bit especially because I had no idea where the superhero post was going, and now I have to make up a back story?!  Back story is haaaaard....

Day 8: Write a prequel to that superhero.  Pre-superhero life.  Maybe their childhood.

On Electrolexi's eighteen birthday, her mother sat her down in the living room.  Electrostatic, Lexi's mother, looked like she had just swallowed a koala, and though it was fuzzy, it seemed to want to claw its way out of the woman's throat.  After the whole Iris VI fiasco a couple weeks ago, Lexi wasn't really sure what her mother had to say to her that could possibly be good.  Especially not with that face she was wearing.

"Mom, are you okay?  You look like you're going to throw up or something," Electrolexi said.  Despite it being her birthday, she was still the type of person who put the concerns of other people in front of her own.  Plus this was the woman who gave her life, and that had to count for something.

"Yeah, sweetie, I'm fine," Electrostatic replied, staring off into some space just past her daughter's head before gulping down the koala in her throat.  "But we need to talk."

"Are you...are you breaking up with me?" Electrolexi deadpanned.

"Alexandra, be serious.  This is important," her mother said, her eyebrows scrunching together in frustration.

"Okay, okay, what's this all about?"

"I have to tell you who your father is," Electrostatic blurted out.  The words sent an unintentional shock through the coffee table Electrostatic had decided to sit upon, and Electrolexi heard the piece of furniture give a little whimper.  The shock extended, of course, to Electrolexi herself, though not quite so literally.

"I, um, what?" was all that Electrolexi could really manage at that point.  "He's Superman, isn't he?!"

Electrostatic took a deep breath.  She didn't seem to be listening up until the point when Superman was mentioned, and the look that she gave Electrolexi was one that said "Come on, really?" without actually verbalizing it.

"Your father is Bad Horse."

"My father...what?  I think I heard you wrong, I could have sworn you said that he was Bad Horse."

"He is Bad Horse."

"Who the hell is Bad Horse?"

"He's...a horse.  Who's bad."

"You kinda have to give me a little more to go on than that, Mom," Electrolexi prompted.  The sinking feeling in her gut told her that whoever this Bad Horse was, he probably wasn't a cool superhero that was going to end up giving her some special superhero training when she came of age and came into her extra powers bestowed upon by him.

"He's the Thoroughbred of Sin," Electrostatic said, hiding her face in her hands.

For some reason, it was at this point when it dawned upon Electrolexi: "He's a horse, isn't he?"

Electrostatic looked up from her palms and nodded once gravely.

"My father's a HORSE?"

"A bad horse.  A very very bad horse."

Well, that explained nothing at all....

"I wanna do great things, you know?  I wanna be an achiever, like Bad Horse."

- Doctor Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog

Apology Post

I feel like I should probably apologize because my brain is not with me.  In fact, I just don't really feel creative today, but I'm bouncy and downright pleased with myself.  Not really sure why though, I've got a lot of ideas bouncing around in my head, but none of them want to splat onto paper.  After cranking out this post, I'm off to watch the Doctor Who movie, because I hear it's full of wonderful ridiculousness.

Point being, I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry that I didn't write a legendary poem, I'm sorry that I spent my time at work writing a letter that I'll never send, I'm sorry that I came home and ate pasta with enough garlic to choke a horse, and I'm sorry that I spent more time on the phone than effort on this poem.

So these are random snippets of things that I wrote while I was at my internship.  Shhhh...

April 10, 2013

One in two kissers agree
that you are superb,
a real ace.
Prince Charming, corpse kisser,
ain't got nothing on you.


My imagination ran away
with me,
grabbing my hand
in one sweaty palm
and tugging me
down an alley.
It wanted to see
where the betrayers live,
the ones who expect much
and doublecross
the hearts of friends.

In other news, my forays into cooking have proved pretty successful.  I haven't died from undercooked chicken, and I even managed to make a few things that were delicious on purpose, though I couldn't really tell you what I did different from the times that they didn't turn out delicious.  I made chicken tikka masala because I had a craving for it, avocado pasta-ness (which is essentially guacamole as pasta sauce) because I love avocados with all my heart and soul, and then there was the pork fried rice that I made tonight with some leftovers.  Unfortunately there were no mushrooms, so I couldn't use those.  But on the bright side, there were onions, so now I can repel any intruders upon my quiet evening at home.

"Everything you can imagine is real."

- Pablo Picasso

Paper Dreams

I was innocently driving my car (I feel like my every story should start out like this...), when I heard this song.

So paper dreams became a thing in today's poem.

April 4, 2013

If she writes down her wishes
in pencil, she can always erase
when she changes her mind
tomorrow.
When she sketches out
the architecture of her aspirations,
she always uses graph paper
and ignores the lines.
When she writes her plans,
she uses paper
and these paper dreams
get caught up with grocery receipts
and junk mail,
mingle with losing scratch cards.
They all end up in the same place,
forgotten and falling apart.
But some of her paper dreams
transform into fuel
because all it takes is a
spark.

"It's not about your make-up 

or how you try to shape up 

to these tiresome paper dreams

paper dreams, honey."

- The Kooks, "She Moves in Her Own Way"

Weeds

So I was going to wait to write this poem fragment until a little later in the month because it's for a prompt for the writers group I go to once a month.  But I couldn't get the first line out of my head and couldn't think of anything else to write, so here it is.  Needs work and a second draft, so maybe I'll have time to do that before I bring it to the group meeting.

April 2, 2013

She said I grew like a weed,
which I found hard to believe
because I've laid belly down
on the front lawn,
waiting for dandelions to grow...
and they are not the most sprightly sprouts.

Unless what she really meant
is that weeds just pop up.
Everywhere.  Randomly.
Which isn't exactly flattering either.

Dandelions take root in my nail beds,
drinking up the nutrients and
taking over unincorporated real estate.
The clovers get lucky
when they shoot up from my veins.
But I'm still using a lasso
instead of RoundUp
because she said I grow
like a weed.

"A weed is but an unloved flower."

- Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Geronomio into Jell-O!

Today we come to you with a prompt from my mysterious prompt box with the little orange slips of paper.

Today's prompt: Who filled the pool with strawberry Jell-O?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was her last day of senior year at Elk Valley Public High School, and she was sitting in homeroom when the announcement came over the PA system.

"To whomever thought it was funny to pour strawberry Jell-O mix in the school's pool, rest assured that you will be found and properly reprimanded.  That is all."

Everyone in the classroom started up a racket chattering about Jell-O and speculating about the possible culprit.  Grace O'Malley wasn't so thrilled about the shenanigans because she had swim practice later that day.  And if she was right about the brutality of her coach, they would be swimming through the strawberry flavored goo.

"Grace, who d'you think did it?" Ryan asked, leaning over on the edge of his desk and tapping Grace on the arm.  "I've got a sneaking suspicion that it was Bailey, he's got a shifty look about his eyes."

The two turned in their seats to look back at Marcus Bailey who was wrapped up in his jacket, as if he didn't have a locker.  The truth of the matter was that he kept so much shit in his pockets, he was reluctant to let any of it out of his sight.  And if the rumors were true, the things he kept in his pockets were less than pleasant.  Maybe strawberry Jell-O mix was one of those unpleasant things.

"Ryan.  Bailey always looks shifty.  Remember that time you snuck up on him the the hallway and he nearly knifed you with a spoon?" Grace replied.

"Better than spooning me with a spoon, eh?" Ryan countered, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and earning himself a swat from Grace when she rolled her eyes.

"Shut up, twit.  It was probably Caroline anyway.  It's always the quiet ones, and she hates swim team, so she'd do anything to get out of practice," Grace said, giving the guessing game a try of her own.

"Why's she on the swim team in the first place then?"

"Parents forced her."

"Ah.  And they didn't think to force her into cheerleading or something productive?"

"Because swimming is less productive than badminton, right?" Grace asked, batting her eyelashes innocently as a scowl settled onto Ryan's face.  "Don't get me wrong, that birdie needs to be frequently beaten into submission."

"It's called a shuttlecock."

"Because that's so much better."

"Maybe it was Principal Wilson.  I mean, does he have anything better to do than sabotage a high school swimming team and the tortures of PE swim class?" Ryan said.

"Hm.  You've got a point.  He's got motive, opportunity, everything."

At that point, the PA system crackled into life once again, "The Jell-O culprit has been identified.  Grace O'Malley, please report to the principal's office immediately."

Grace's jaw dropped in a parody of every cartoon she had ever seen as a child.  She looked at Ryan helplessly before gathering up her backpack and heading out the classroom door to the hoots and hollers of her classmates.

"It's as if we spend our entire lives avoiding Jell-O but it's always there at the end, waiting."

- John Grisham

Something Old: Eden's Diner

AMIE

An entire book in one week.  That’s unbelievable!

CLANCY

(mumbling under AMIE’s comments)

It’s impossible.  Insanity.  It can’t be done.

AMIE

Any idea what you’re going to do?

CLANCY

No. (sits)  I have nothing.  It’s impossible.  A WHOLE book in a single week?  (Rests forehead on the table)  Nothing’s coming to me.

AMIE

That’s called writer’s block.  Nothing ever comes to you.  You always need to find a “muse.”  But you’re just stressed out.  And you can’t write about nothing.  Why don’t you write about…a writer with writer’s block?

CLANCY

 (rests chin on the table, after a pause)

That sounds oddly familiar…But you know I can’t leave my protagonist alive at the end.

AMIE

He could kill himself.

CLANCY

No.

(forehead on the table)

AMIE

Alright.  Then why don’t you write about that murder that happened recently?

CLANCY

What murder?

AMIE

Didn’t you hear?

(REPORTER enters, and CLANCY isn’t really paying attention.)

REPORTER

This just in.  (mouths words) of (mouths)  Publishing Company has just been found in his office with several bizarre stab wounds in his back.  No word yet on possible suspects or the weapon used in this murder, OR when it could have occurred, but we will keep you updated.

In other news, theatre students from Loyola Academy---

AMIE

(cutting off REPORTER.  REPORTER exits.) 

It’s either that one or the one involving the cat.

CLANCY

 (chin on the table)

 I wouldn’t know which one to pick.

AMIE

You should definitely go with the backstabber.  (Gestures vaguely.) There seems to be a lot of explanation needed for that one.

CLANCY

(Pause)

And the cat murder is self-explanatory?

AMIE

(shrugs)

It’d make a good story.  Use your imagination.

CLANCY

You sound like a kindergarten teacher.  It’s impossible.  I could never pull it off with so little time.

Pause

Well, what are you going to do?

AMIE

I’ve got a couple ideas I’ve been tossing around.  I’m just worried about where you’re going to find inspiration.  For the sake of competition, of course.  I mean, I hate to beat you without you even trying.

CLANCY

 (Sarcastic)

 Of course.  I’ll think of something.  Possibly.  Maybe I’ll find something under “inspiration” in the yellow pages.

Braaaaaiiiins....

"I have a brain, but it isn't mine."

Grant was something of a collector, you would say.  Lining the shelves of his office were jars with wrinkled up balls of rubber floating inside an unidentifiable fluid.  Each of the jars had a neat little label attached to the front of it so he always knew which brain he was playing around with whenever he chose to shake things up a little bit.

Tara wasn't sure whether she should laugh or if she should remain straight faced as she sat in the chair across the desk from Grant.  Behind Grant were the five levels of shelving, each shelf packed with brains.  If the zombie apocalypse ever occurred, they could always send the zombies here and this office alone would feed the brain eaters for a week.

So she settled on clearing her throat uncomfortably and shifting her grip on the briefcase that was balanced on her lap.

"Um, excuse me?" she asked, pretending she hadn't heard what he said correctly.

"I have a brain...but it isn't mine," Grant repeated, this time with a gesture to the jars behind him.  There was no mistaking the poorly timed joke this time, and Tara choked back the bile climbing the back of her throat.  "Anyway, as I was saying, we're on the cutting edge of brain technology so I've had the responsibility of poking around the folds of the actual brains and learning what exactly goes where and what we can fiddle around with."  Grant said all this at a speed that slightly exceeded the speed limit for casual conversation, and indicated that he assumed Tara knew what he was talking about.

Which she didn't.

But he didn't need to know that.

"Mr. Newman, I would appreciate it if you would keep your jokes in check," Tara said primly as she pulled a sheaf of paper out of her briefcase.  "And I wondered if you could look through this and tell me precisely whose brain wrote this document."

"I...I'm not sure that I'm the right person to talk to about something like this, I'm not really a paper read-y type of person," Grant said, holding up his hands, palms out, as if in surrender.

"Please, Mr. Newman, I insist.  You are, after all, the brains of this operation, so called."

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I've been watching too much Dollhouse.  Luckily there's only one more episode left and then I get to figure out what new show I can use to procrastinate with.

"The vast majority of us imagine ourselves as like literature people or math people.  But the truth is that the massive processor known as the human brain is neither a literature organ or a math organ.  It is both and more."

- John Green

Challenge Day 7

That's right, folks!  It's time to celebrate, because here is the daily writing challenge!  I've finished a whole week's worth of the challenge in...about two months.  But we're not going to talk about that because today is a day of celebration!  Everyone should do a writing challenge and spread out the prompts like the last bits of butter in the container across an entire loaf of bread...it's all good!

Here we have Day 7: Create a superhero.  Have he/she save the day.  (We're not going to talk about the grammar mistake happening right before our very eyes, but I am going to shamelessly point it out.)

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Electrolexi's superhero name wasn't her idea.  She had wanted a name that was cool.  Like "The Inanimator."  Or something like that.  But her superhero mom thought that it would be clever to use little bits of the young superhero's name.  Alexandra turned into Electrolexi.  No relation to Electrolux.  Or maybe there was.  Superhero family trees were always so complicated, you would never know who was related to whom unless there was a slight similarity in name.  Batman and Batgirl?  Definitely father and daughter.  Wait, that wasn't right...

Anyway, Electrolexi's superpower involved being able to communicate with inanimate objects.  This was not exactly a power that gained you recognition among the superhero community, it was on par with being able to transform into a puddle of water or creating marshmallows with your toes.  Something like that.  Electrolexi's mother could control electricity and her father...well, not even Electrolexi's mother would admit who he was, though Electrolexi suspected he was Superman, but that was partially a case of wishful thinking.

On a February morning, Electrolexi turned on the television in her mother's living room to see a screen announcing, "BREAKING NEWS!"

"We've just heard word from NASA that their latest rocket, Iris VI has been hijacked by an unknown entity.  We can posit that the person climbing into the cockpit and throwing the prep crew out a window is a man from the body type observed on the surveillance cameras, but nothing else can be assumed at this point.  Superman was on the scene to save the prep crew being thrown out of the rocket, but has since disappeared, it has been reported that a Bruce Wayne who was funding the rocket's expedition may be on the scene any minute now to consult.  We will keep you updated."

"Ahem, 'scuse me, but could you 'old me a bit lighter?" coughed the television remote.

"Oh!  Sorry..." mumbled Electrolexi.  She hadn't even realized that she was gripping it white-knuckled.

Without a fully formed plan, Electrolexi grabbed her cape and ran out the door.  About halfway down her block, she got a stitch in her side and had to slow down to a brisk walk as she passed the bus that she would normally be taking to her high school.  Chances are if she failed in whatever she wasn't planning on doing, her mother would kill her for skipping school to save the world anyway.

By the time she got to NASA, Electrolexi had a vague idea of what she should do.

"Hey!  You can't be in here!" a bespectacled man yelled at her as she rushed down the hall to the control room.

"Trust me, I've got this handled!" she bellowed over her shoulder.  Though she probably wasn't the most convincing person the man had heard, considering she was a lanky teenaged girl running full speed down a hallway toward the control room of a gigantic rocket, but what did that matter anyway?

Barreling into the control room, Electrolexi yelled at the top of her lungs, "Let me talk to the rocket!"

A group of rocket scientists turned from their computer screens to take in the teenaged girl standing inside the door and panting to catch her breath.  None of them smiled, none of them found this even remotely funny.  There was an unknown man in the cockpit of the rocket and this silly girl was demanding that she be allowed to "talk to the rocket"?

"Pardon me, little girl, but who do you think you are?" asked a white-haired man closest to the door where Electrolexi was still panting.

"I'm Electrolexi.  Trust me.  I've got this.  Give me a microphone."

The rocket scientists were all so baffled by the presence of a teenager in their control room, they just handed her a microphone without any further questions.  The white-haired man snickered a little bit and shook his head before settling back into his seat.

Closing her eyes and concentrating, Electrolexi tuned into what she figured was the rocket's voice singing a tuneless ditty without words as it prepared to take off.  It didn't really care who was piloting it, it just wanted to fly.

"Hey, Iris?  Iris VI?  This is Electrolexi, can you hear me?"

"Electrolexi?  I don't think I know you.  Are you friends with the president?" the rocket asked, halting her song rather abruptly when she was interrupted.

"Yeah, we'll go with that.  Okay, I need you to stay put, alright?  If you get clearance for take-off, it's not from us."

"Right-o!"

Electrolexi let out a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding.  That was easy.  Too easy...

To be continued...?

Saving Snickers

(based on a picture from my Writing Inspiration board on Pinterest)

Source: facebook.com via Katie on Pinterest

Snickers didn't want to be saved.  Having accomplished the miraculous feat of making a break from the green Victorian on Vine and scampering across the stretch of front lawn, Snickers had scrabbled up a tree on the parkway and now there was this grown man wearing spandex reaching towards him.  Snickers would have none of this.  Unsheathing his claws, Snickers brandished them at the man with all the threat his little bell-collared self could muster.

"Come on, Snickers, just come on over here," the man was saying as he clutched at the trunk of the tree and reached out for the cat.  The old woman who lived in the green Victorian and provided Snickers with cat nip every week on Friday stood at the base of the tree, looking up.  She tilted her head so far back her big round glasses slid up the slope of her nose and rested on her face.  Snickers fostered little pity for the old woman who had her young grandchildren come visit on the weekends and pull his tail.

"Why don't you fly, Superman?" yelled a skateboard-toting boy from the sidewalk.  The man in spandex ignored this jibe because evidently he didn't deem it necessary to rise to this occasion.  In Snickers' opinion, the man in spandex would probably be able to better coax his feline self to come down if he displayed some level of inhuman skill.  Lex Luthor must have had the day off otherwise why would this man who called himself "Superman" be climbing a tree to retrieve a cat?

Snickers did not find this amusing.  He bristled at the hand reaching towards him and promptly slashed it across the knuckles, drawing blood and leaving little carvings of parallel lines across the hero's extremities.  Superman immediately stuffed his bleeding fingers in his mouth to stifle the un-super hero-like curse that threatened to escape.

"Come here, Snickers, Granny's got a nice new ball of yarn for you to play with if you come down," the old woman beckoned, her face still tilted to the sky and her eyes squinting through her glasses at the bristling ball of fuzz that was Snickers who was still unconvinced that his adventure needed to end here and now.

Superman pulled his fingers out of his mouth and slowly returned his grip to the tree branch where Snickers was standing.  His face seemed to soften into a guilty expression and he looked at Snickers, speaking softly,  "Look, Snickers.  Let me level with you.  I'm kinda not having the greatest day.  Lois is moving out to focus on her career, Lex Luthor TP-ed the Fortress of Solitude, and I have a wicked hangover, so if you could just come on down, you'd really be doing me a favor."

The man in spandex let that sink into Snickers' little cat head and little cat thoughts.  He could see that Snickers was relaxing his muscles, toning down the bristles.  The cat's eyes softened and his scowl relaxed into a far more neutral expression.  Which is when Superman reached out and picked up Snickers with a grab as fast as a speeding bullet, realizing only too late that Snickers still had his claws out.

"If cats looked like frogs, we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are.  Style.  That's what people remember."

- Terry Pratchett

Challenge Day 6

Here we go with the daily writing challenge!  Day 6: Start your story with: "He glanced at his watch impatiently..."

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He glanced at his watch impatiently, having already run out of other ways to check his watch.  He'd already tried out "cheerfully" an hour ago, and his attitude towards his watch and the passage of time had rapidly descended into "curiously," spiraling past "irritably" and straight into "impatiently" where it seemed like it was bound to stay for good.  Vincent Traver had been sitting on the same uncomfortable park bench for what was, in his opinion, far too long.  But that was the the nature of meetings like these, he was at the mercy of whoever deigned to speak with him.

"Is this seat taken?"

Vincent looked up to see an Asian woman standing over the empty half of a bench and pointing at the seat.  She was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a not quite smile, not quite frown, a face somewhere in between that Vincent couldn't decide if it was meant to be friendly or just...that's when Vincent realized he was staring.

"No, please, sit," Vincent said, casting a glance around the park to break his stare and noting several completely empty benches across the way.  Odd.

Vincent slid even further down the bench to allow the woman as much room as she wanted on the other end.    As it turned out, the woman didn't take up much space at all, having the same build as a fairy or something equally delicate yet dangerous.  Yes.  Fairies are dangerous.  Moving on...  She pulled a newspaper out of her black bag and shook it open.  Once her face and mirrored sunglasses were hidden behind the newsprint, she asked, "So I hear you like gardening."

Quirking an eyebrow, Vincent turned slightly towards the woman and her newspaper.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Gardening.  Shovel, dirt, plants.  I hear you like it."

"I actually prefer water skiing," Vincent said with a slight shrug, turning to face front again.

"I see.  It's rather nice in Miami this time of year," the woman commented thoughtfully, the newspaper held firmly in front of her.

"It's always nice in Miami," Vincent chuckled.

As if this was some kind of signal, the woman folded up her newspaper and stuffed it back into her purse.  She stood up, leaving behind a white envelope with a tri-colored fleur-de-lis seal holding it closed.  All of this happened so quickly, Vincent was left on the park bench staring straight ahead with his mouth hanging open. Shaking himself out of his confusion, he grabbed at the envelope and tore it open.

"My name is Chen Fan.  I was sent as a decoy.  You will find the real message under the third cafe table at 6322 N. Cloudgate.  If you do not collect the message within 24 hours we will be forced to terminate your contract.  Good luck."

A Letter to/from My Valentine

Even though I technically asked and was accepted as a valentine for my mother, sometimes you just have to write some mushy stuff.  I know it's probably trite and I'm probably contradicting my post from last year, but you know...here goes nothing.

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Valentine I Wish I Would Get:

Dearest Brianna,

It feels as though it's been weeks since I heard your voice when in reality it hasn't even been one week.  And now it's Valentine's Day.  And I know how you feel about Valentine's Day, so for I'll count the cliches for you when they come up.

You mean the world to me (1).  No joke.  If it came down to whether I would want you or the world, well, you would be more portable.

I can't imagine myself with anyone else but you (2) although if Angelina Jolie came calling, I might have to go running.  We have to have our principles here and I figure if I tell you in advance, you won't be able to argue with me when it happens.

In short, love, let's go have adventures and make the most out of life (3).

I love you, happy Valentine's day.

Love,
Random Imaginary (preferably British) Gentleman

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Valentine I Wish I Would Send:

Dear love,

Yesterday I started writing thank you notes for the presents I got for Christmas, and because you know me so well, you're going to keep your mouth shut about thank you notes being most effective when they come right after the holiday they belong to...  Anyway, the point is that because I'm kind of in a more thankful mood than I usually am, this will probably end up being a thank you note rather than a love letter, so I apologize if you were getting your hopes up.

Thank you.

Thank you for understanding me enough to know that you have to let me ride the shopping cart in the parking lot, and if you don't I'll probably pout.  Thank you for letting me drag you down every single aisle in the grocery store because it amuses me.

Thank you for letting me play.  It's taken me a really long time to find someone like you who is willing to let me play.  You once told me that you didn't see the point in becoming an adult if you couldn't be childish sometimes, and I'm pretty sure that that's when I fell for you.  And the best part is, you don't just let me play, you join in.  You pun with me, and I love that about you.  I was always afraid that I would end up with someone who would crush my soul and force me to write stuffy poetry, but you make me want to go on adventures with you and stay up all night eating candy.

Thank you for using British-isms and/or being British yourself.  You know that that's exactly what I love, and you use it to your advantage.  It's perfect.  Seriously.  Don't ever stop.  And thank you for understanding that if David Tennant comes into my life, I will leave you.  And even if you don't really understand, thank you for allowing that this is a reality.

Thank you for kissing me to shut me up when I'm on a rant.  Oh wait.  That's me.  Um.  Well, thank you for letting me kiss you to shut you up?  :^P

Thank you for writing to me.  I've always had a list of things that I would want my perfect man to be and do, and writing to me is up there.  I love the letters and the postcards and the e-mails, I love that we're in contact outside of text messages because I have to admit that I love reading the words that you physically wrote on a piece of paper for me.  It's kinda awesome.  You don't have to write me poetry, but I love that you do, it makes me melt.

Thank you for supporting me, especially when I'm being irrational.  Thank you for holding me and calming my panic especially when you don't understand what the big deal is anyway.  Because I know it's dumb.  And I know that I worry without reason, but sometimes it's just something I need to do.  Thank you for being there.

Thank you for not giving up on me.

Love,
Brianna

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

To all the lovers, to all the romantics, to all those looking for love, or to those who have lost it, may you have a wonderful day full of sunshine and warmth.  And don't forget about discounted candy tomorrow!

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PROMPT:
Write your own valentine you wish you would send or receive!

"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street."

- W.H. Auden

Challenge Day 5

So here we go, daily writing challenge!  This is Day 5: A story revolving around an object in your room.

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It was my grandma's desk.  She had always wanted to be a writer, so when I started showing writing tendencies, my dad figured that my room was the best place for the piece of furniture.  I would put it to good use, see.

I spent the majority of my writing time sprawled out across the carpet in my bedroom because Grandma's desk was turned into a place where I threw things.  I'm talking about receipts from evenings out eating pie, programs from shows I went to see, random objects that I found in my pockets after a weekend out of town, things like that.  If there was ever an original piece of writing written on that desk by me, it was a to do list on a Post-It on the corner of the thing.

I wasn't really interested in using the thing for my writing because I wrote more while I was on the go than when I was sitting alone at home, so I grumbled and griped when my mother told me I needed to clean the desk out.

"But Mom, it probably hasn't been cleaned out since Grandma died!" I said.  Needless to say I wasn't looking forward to a Saturday afternoon looking through probably empty drawers and dusting them out.

"Then it shouldn't be a problem, should it?  You know, if the drawers are all empty already?" Mom reasoned, dragging the laundry down into the basement and ignoring any further protests.

I probably shouldn't have complained as much as I did, especially if the thing turned out to be empty.

The first couple drawers were empty except for a couple crumpled up candy wrappers.  The last drawer, like in all good mysteries, was jammed.  I struggled with the handle, jiggling it and trying to wedge it open.  Right about the time when I was going to call it a loss or grab a crowbar, the drawer sprung open and bit my finger on top of everything.  Shoving my finger in my mouth to ease the pain, I peeked into the drawer to find a leather bound book.

"What the..."

The book looked like it had been there since just after the tree that made the desk was turned into a desk-like form.  It was covered in a layer of dust, so much that I didn't feel it necessary to move right away, not without a glove or a paper towel or something.

And all I kept thinking was why had no one noticed it before?

To be continued...?

Challenge Day 3

I'm doing such an incredible job keeping up with my daily writing challenge, that I figured I should just keep plowing on.  The whole concept of a "daily" writing challenge is really just an exercise to get me to keep writing, right?  The fact that I'm writing a poem a day is irrelevant.  Basically, I really want to get back into writing fiction, but right now...all my fiction is kinda centered on certain life changes that have recently come to pass.  Moving home, for example.  Being newly single again, for another.  I wouldn't say that I'm poisoned or anything, just that I'm kinda extremely focused on these things.  You wouldn't believe how boring the poems about the same thing over and over get.  Okay, maybe you can, especially since these blog post tend to be the same thing over and over again.  I apologize for nothing, I'm just having a hell of a good time.  So here we have Day 3: A story that takes place pre-1950.

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Once upon a time long before the advent of time-keeping devices or the creatures that deemed them necessary, there lived a dinosaur.  This dinosaur was the kind that only consumed greens and things that grew out of the ground rather than the kind that ate other dinosaurs.  This dinosaur's name was Gilbert, and he liked to think that he was a kindly sort, never starting arguments with other dinosaurs and never eating more than his daily allotment of grasses and berries.  (Though this was a timeless land, it was not a land without government.)

Gilbert was happy enough, he wandered the land, visiting with his friends when he stumbled upon them and sidling past the carnivores in the neighborhood when they looked a little peckish.

On a day that dawned like any other, Gilbert woke up in his dinosaur bed and scratched his dinosaur head, stretching and yawning before pulling himself out of bed and heading out in search of breakfast.  There was a patch of grass that he had in mind for the morning's meal, and he had gone to bed thinking about it.

Though Gilbert's dreams had been filled with the emerald hues of this particular patch of grass, when he arrived at the patch, he found three elderly dinosaurs munching on it and gossiping.

"Oh, and I heard that her scales are actually surgically shined every season," one of them said through a mouthful of grass.

Another gasped and exclaimed, "No!  It couldn't be!" before squinting at the patch of grass and picking a particularly succulent bite.

"Oh yes, I heard it all from Gertrude.  You told me all about it, didn't you, Gertrude?" the first one said, nudging the third in the shoulder.  The third dinosaur either hadn't been listening or was hard of hearing so she squinted up her dinosaur face and said, "Whaaaat?"

Gilbert shook his dinosaur head and turned dinosaur tail to trudge in the opposite direction in search of breakfast.  He didn't go very far when he stumbled upon a beautiful bright yellow creature growing out of the ground.  She possessed the same brightness of the sun anchored to the ground by a green and leafy stem.  Needless to say, Gilbert was smitten the moment he saw her.

"I think I'm in love," he whispered to himself, checking in either direction to see if some other dinosaur was listening in to what he considered a soliloquy.  "She's so beautiful..."

The flower swayed in the wind, making little circles with her leaves, but said nothing.  Mostly because flowers aren't very talkative in the first place, but also because she hoped that if she stayed very still...the dinosaur that was looking at her so intently would lose interest and wouldn't eat her after all.

Gilbert sidled up to the flower, so close that his dinosaur breath set her to swaying again.

"Hello.  I don't mean to sound forward or anything, but I think you're beautiful, and I might be in love with you," Gilbert said, his dinosaur nerve managing to take him all the way through the proclamation without stuttering.

The flower said nothing.

"Heh, I mean...I'm sorry if this is awkward, but it'd be great if you could say something."

The flower remained silent.

Without encouragement, Gilbert shuffled his dinosaur feet and pursed his dinosaur lips.  "I...I mean, this doesn't really change anything.  I do think you're beautiful.  I do love you.  I'm just sorry you don't feel the same way.  I'm...just gonna go then..."  So Gilbert walked off, a little bit of his dinosaur pride chipped away, and feeling a little bit hungrier than before.

And the flower wept for what might have been.  A terribly Shakespearean love affair that she could never give voice to.

Challenge Day 2

Well, I started this post on January 2nd.  And then I realized that I should procrastinate as much as possible to prove how spectacularly bad I am at sticking to things.

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Here we go, the second day of my daily creative writing challenge!  I'm really excited for this month, actually, despite my anxieties about keeping up with it, but you know what?  It'll be alright.  Day 2: Write a fan fiction.  What's great about this is actually that I loathe fan fiction.  I went through a phase a while ago, probably around middle school, when I read Harry Potter fan fiction, all stories about the Marauders, specifically romance between James and Lily.  Because even back then I was a major sap.  I even wrote a story or two that were fan fiction in nature, and they were wretched, I can tell you that right now.  So here we go, here's a look at some of the worst seat-of-my-pants fan fiction I could be prevailed upon to write for today's challenge!

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The library was a quiet place, which was to be expected considering the number of vulture-like librarians staring down their long and hooked noses over the circulation desk at the tables lined up between the bookshelves.  No one would dare make a sound under the eyes of those creatures.  A young girl with golden blonde hair sat at one of the tables, running her hands through her curls and tugging at the locks.  She sat staring at a blank notebook and a Bic crystal pen lying next to it, uncapped.

When the TARDIS landed, it landed with a groaning whooshing noise characteristic to the police box, materializing bit by bit in the midst of the library's bookshelves.  The door faced one of the bookshelves, and when the occupant of the police box opened the door, he realized his error and scurried back inside to disappear and reappear once again.

"There now, that's better," the Doctor said as he flung open the door to the police box.  "Hello, good people!"

The Doctor, in his brown tweed, elbow patches, and maroon bow tie, was met by a disapproving "SH!" from the circulation desk as a line of hooked-nosed librarians looked up from their computer screens and scowled at him.  None of them approved of his volume, and only one approved of his manner of dress.  And somehow, he could just tell.

"What, bow ties are cool," the Doctor muttered, straightening the accessory as he mentioned it.  Shaking off the disapproving looks of the library vultures, the Doctor took a stroll out into the center of the room, following the aisles up and down between the tables and finally settling on the girl who seemed to be pulling her hair out.  He sidled up to her and placed his elbows on the table in front of her, propping his head up and blinking.  "Why the long face?"

Considering his entrance, the girl shouldn't have been as shocked as she was to see a strange looking man propping his head up on the table in front of her, and his appearance itself shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did, but as it goes with stories like these: the girl was shocked, and jumped half a foot out of her chair.

"Who are you?" she asked, green eyes blinking behind purple rimmed glasses.

"The Doctor, just The Doctor, of course, here to fix problems, and I'm not really quite sure what," the Doctor rattled off, swaying side to side and regarding the girl thoughtfully.  "And you are?"

"Oh, I'm just Anna," she said with a shrug, her fingers finally releasing her hair.  The Doctor could practically hear her scalp sigh with relief.

"And what seems to be the problem, 'Just Anna'?"

"Just plain old ordinary writer's block, as usual," Anna grumbled.  This seemed to be a constant problem for her, the writing and the failing to write, and the wanting to write, and the having writer's block problem.  And writer's block was an affliction for which there was no cure but time or copious amounts of alcohol, neither of which Anna had very much of or inclination to abuse.

"Ah.  Well, let's see then," the Doctor said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his sonic screwdriver.  To Anna it just looked like a strange tool, and when he aimed it at her head and it made a strange buzzing noise, she wasn't quite certain how to react.

"What are you do--"

"Sh."

Anna obeyed, and when the Doctor ceased the buzzing sound and regarded the screwdriver thoughtfully, he screwed up his face in thought.

"You have a bad case of the nargles," he said, finally.

"The what?"

"Nargles.  You've read Harry Potter, right?  Well, Luna Lovegood had it right, nargles get into your head and make your thoughts all fuzzy.  They actually feed on good ideas, and so it feels like you don't have any ideas at all.  Makes it really difficult to pick out your clothes in the morning," the Doctor explained, nodding as he did.  He replaced the sonic screwdriver in his inner jacket pocket and began digging around in his other pockets for something.

"So what do I do about them?" Anna asked, alarmed that something like a fictional creature could be munching on her very real ideas.

"Here, eat this," the Doctor said, shoving a Hershey's bar into her frozen fingers.  "The sugars will deter them and they'll just fly out to get away from them."

Anna followed instructions without really thinking about them, biting off a bit of chocolate and swallowing before she thought to ask, "Fly out where?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, Anna let out an explosive sneeze that caused all the librarians to look up at her and scowl, holding their fingers to their lips, "SHHHH!"  She looked apologetically up at them, but then her eyes widened and she grabbed her pen and started writing immediately.

"Thank you so much," she said, grinning at the Doctor as he flounced back to the TARDIS and pushed the door open.

"Any time you need a muse...just give me a call," he said, giving her a wink and setting off for another adventure.