December Thoughts: End of Year

End of Year

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Oi. The week between Christmas and New Year's is a crazy jungle of me losing my mind. Goes a little something like this: Christmas Eve with Mom and sister; Christmas morning, of course; Christmas at aunt at uncle's; Christmas at in-laws; Dad arrives day after Christmas; G's birthday and Dad's birthday the following day; G's birthday party with friends. I possess the approximate tolerance of the Princess and the Pea princess. 

I try really hard to separate G's birthday and Dad's birthday from Christmas. They do have to suck it up and withstand celebrating together. We go out to eat on one day (usually G's) and activities are thrown together to be for both of them. Otherwise I would spontaneously combust. And if I spontaneously combusted, who would feed them? This year we crammed a little of what each of them wanted to do. It was a busy but fun day. 

First, we headed out for the east end of Lake Coeur d'Alene. But, but it's winter, you say. Yes, yes it is. See, there are very special visitors this time of year: bald eagles. They gather near Wolf Lodge Bay to snag the spawning kokanee fish. As most people know, this bird was somewhat recently removed from the endangered species list. We do see pairs nesting at our fishing holes during the spring and summer months, too. However, we have never ventured to Wolf Lodge Bay during "Eagle Watch Week" to see the large number of birds this time of year. Idaho Fish and Game had checkpoints set up with spotting scopes to view the birds up close. The weather was frigid, but I'm glad we made it out there. We watched several birds dive to the surface of the lake to catch fish. It was like observing a National Geographic film in the making. Naturally, I brought my camera and snapped some photos. I uploaded a few to ebird.org which you can view here. I have since made further adjustments to exposures and colors, but you see my foundation work. 

Next we went to the movie theater because this was what G really wanted to do on her birthday. We saw "Sing" which was actually pretty cute. G is really into music and singing shows like Disney's Austin and Ally and this was right along those lines. She loves to get the huge bottomless popcorn tub, which Grandpa (my dad) and T enjoy as well. I'm not a popcorn enthusiast. I can't stand the kernel shells stuck in my gums. 

After the movie we planned to meet Auntie M at Applebee's for dinner. Since Auntie wasn't able to make it to the movie, G got a whole refill of popcorn to take to her. An entire buttery tub of popcorn, whose aroma filled the car, which no one was allowed to eat because it was going to be Auntie's treat. Can you imagine how the drive went? If not, allow me to enlighten you:

"Let me have some more popcorn," said Grandpa.

"NOOOOOOO!" say G as she slaps his hand away. "This popcorn is for Auntie! You already ate a ton during the movie."

"Please? Just a little? I don't think Auntie will mind."

"Yes she will. YES SHE WILL! I am going to tell on you."

This goes on back and forth until we reach Applebee's. Thank goodness it's only a few minutes from the theater. We eat dinner and Auntie doesn't even complain. She is not an Applebee's fan and will pretty much argue about where to eat until you are ready to gouge your eyeballs out with the nearest pencil. Mark my words. This is the first time she relented and ate at the restaurant everybody else wanted, even though it was at an establishment she dislikes. 

For dessert we wandered over to Krispy Kreme doughnuts. G wanted to ride in Auntie's car and, of course, give her the popcorn. Dad, T, and I all laughed on the way over: we wondered if the popcorn was going to spill all over Auntie's car. She planned ahead, however. She took a photo and showed us that the popcorn got buckled into the seat. Ha ha ha!

Finally we all get to go home and rest. What a day! You would think that would be enough celebrating, but now tomorrow is G's party for her friends. In fact, I think I should go to bed now. I cannot wait until I can ship her off to school on Monday. Good night.

Copyright 2016 Jennifer E. Miller

December Thoughts: This Week

This Week

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

This week as been rather disappointing. A few unfortunate and annoying events happened one after the other. 

First, I had to restore a few household electronic gizmos. I noticed the wi-fi was intermittently disconnecting from our devices. I was able to successfully get onto the internet via a hardwired device even when the wi-fi was interrupted, so I determined it was a router problem. We also needed a new PC, so I hopped in the car and headed to the store for both. (Our credit card company is doing away with the gift card rewards, and we had to cash out our points quickly. Too bad we didn't know before we purchased our Christmas gifts!) Luckily, I remembered our ISP provider had recently sent us a new modem (which of course, I had to install). A quick call home to my other half confirmed some good news: a built-in router in the new modem. Thank goodness! One less thing to plug in and connect. I got the computer home and spent most of the day setting it up and restoring the wi-fi problem. The wireless printer connection was more difficult than I remember. It took about three or four tries, but I finally got it. Why can't I just touch the computer and the printer at the same time, say "abracadabra," and poof! they are speaking to each other? Geez, if I had a 3D printer I could make a dove fly out afterwards, too.

A new PC is fine and dandy, but the set up process is such a chore. T is lucky I know an iota about computers because he is completely lost in this department. I have a husband who can build sheds, finish basements, fix electrical problems, and work on boat motors. When a computer goes kaput he hands it off to me! Really, why can't a woman have a man who does it all! :)

Second, as I took a break from all this computer setup, I noticed an issue with our pet betta fish, Blueberry Jewel. His stomach was very swollen. He also wasn't eating his food; quite unusual for a little guy who always gobbles it up. He spent most of the day resting at the bottom of the tank. The condition worsened overnight. He was even plumper, and his scales were sticking out. Kinda like how a pine cone slowly opens. He couldn't swim to the top of the tank easily; and if he did, he sank right down often head first. I did an internet search and found his condition, dropsy, was not something he would recover from. I broke the news to G, who was devastated. Blueberry Jewel made it through another night. In the morning, I couldn't believe he was still alive. G had an appointment that afternoon. Sadly, when we returned home we found he had gone to fishy heaven.

G had apparently become quite attached to Blueberry Jewel. She cried and cried. She had already placed a stocking over the fireplace for him and now he was missing Christmas. She remembered the employee at the pet store saying that a betta's lifespan is approximately three years. We only had him for one and a half. This kid has watched hundreds of fish get gutted and filleted in our front yard. And then eats them for dinner! But the tiny two inch finned creature living happily in a five gallon tank sent her emotions over the edge. She wanted to bury him the yard. Which would be fine except for the tundra-like conditions brought by ole Jack Frost. We found one small soft spot near a window well that became his tiny grave site. G placed Blueberry Jewel in the hole with more tears flowing as she said her final goodbye. 

I know her heartbroken state is good sign. It tells me she has a conscious and feelings that run deep. She loves with a big heart. 

Third, a short story I submitted to a contest was not selected as a winner. I realize my chances of winning were quite slim, but I had high hopes for this story. It's one of my best/favorites. Losing means relatively nothing. I'm no worse off that before. It doesn't mean my story sucks because I KNOW IT'S FREAKING AWESOME. Just, for some reason, it hit me hard. I was feeling good vibes about it, but they were wrong. Imagination, love, and commitment went into that story. Rejection came crashing down like meteor destroying my sowed garden. I guess I put so much love into my work, like G does with her pets, that I was a teensy bit devastated. But you know what? Other writers, and ordinary folks, I have shared it all gave favorable feedback. My story gave joy to other readers. That's really all writers want.

With each mishap, I have learned something. A dying router pushed me to finally get a new computer. Our old one was operating Windows Vista. The new one is faster and more secure. And it's pretty darn cool to have it at no cost with those gift cards! The death of our fish helped me see how big and wide open my child's love is for the world around her. When I see her cry now, I know a little piece of her heart has been taken away. I realized how sensitive she really is; and that I need to be more sensitive to this fact. Lastly, losing a contest is not a measurement of my ability or self worth. I will continue to work towards new chances at being awesome. 

December Thoughts: One Year Post-op

I didn't really know what to write about this week. It's bitter freezing cold outside, but everyone already knows that. I decide to discuss something else that's crossed my mind a lot lately.

One Year Post-Op

As of Dec 10, it's been one year since my shoulder surgery. The surgeon cleaned up bursitis, bone spurs, and minor rotator cuff tears (debridement, I think it's called). I won't say my shoulder is completely back to its pre-boo-boo days. However, I am thankful for the many activities I can once again do which no longer cause pain: reach up to get a dish from the top shelf; push down on the faucet handle; hold my arm out to the side; turn the steering wheel; buckle the seat belt; rest my elbow on the table; lift a gallon of milk from the shopping cart; put on a coat; wash and brush my hair; hang from a bar. I can also shovel snow from the driveway again which I refuse to put on my "happy to do again" list, but I'm sure T is enjoying my regained strength to accomplish this chore. The year has proven to test my patience, but I'm thankful to have toughed it out.

I was told my surgical procedure was the easiest to recover from; however, the recovery process has been far from easy. Of course the few days after surgery were difficult and painful. Anesthesia made me horrendously nauseous. I despised the prescribed narcotics. And I couldn't sleep lying down for a month; recliner sleeping it was. Physical therapy and gentle stretches were all I managed for the first several weeks. After very slow healing, my shoulder still had stiffness and I opted for another cortisone injection (I already had three in the months leading up to surgery). The doctor and physical therapist reminded me that I dealt with my bum shoulder on and off for two years, so expect some extra time to regain full strength.

A large adjustment was electing not to return to CrossFit. Due to loose joints that contributed to my injury, it was best to cease activities that could exasperate this condition. I decided to obtain a gym membership at MUV fitness instead. I started attending the group fitness classes such as P90X and Pump. These incorporate weights but at a less intense level. I will not lie: beginning these exercise classes with even a three pound weight was tough! I couldn't use any weight for some movements and my shoulder was sore after many of the sessions. Little by little, as I gained strength and stamina, I increased load. In fact, I have gain enough confidence in my shoulder to return to CrossFit for the occasional Saturday class. I can now hang from a bar and do pull-ups! I can't do twenty-five unbroken like before; more like six. Wooot!

As difficult as it's been to be patient, I'm glad I got the surgery. I was lucky to have wonderful, caring medical professionals helping me along the way. Here's to recovery year number two!

An Old Fashioned Christmas

An Old Fashioned Christmas

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

An old fashioned Christmas. The term generally conjures up images from Little Women. Civil War-aged women in wool petticoats and hooded cloaks, shivering in horse drawn carriages with harness bells jingling. They'd thaw near the hearth eating freshly roasted chestnuts. Homemade Christmas presents lay wrapped in brown paper secured with twine. For lucky recipients, an orange could be found in a knitted stocking on Christmas morning. Speaking of Christmas morning, would children find evidence of Santa? Since they had authentic fireplaces, would there be ashy footprints left behind by The Big Guy? How simple Christmas probably was back then. 

Flash forward about 100 years. What was a Christmas like in 1960? Homemade pumpkin and apple pies perhaps? Locally made chocolate bars and candy canes in stockings? Maybe space toys and baby dolls waited under the tree. Stuff like doll furniture and toy cars were probably still made of wood; and handmade by a family member.

But what is an old fashioned Christmas anymore anyways? It's 2016 after all. Kids want iPods and Xboxes. An old fashioned Christmas nowadays probably dates back to 1986 when children ripped opened packages to find the original Nintendo Entertainment System, complete with the games Super Mario Bros and Duck Hunt. And a plastic gun for shooting down those on-screen birds. Digital watches and cassette tapes filled stockings; we could get oranges anytime at the supermarket.

What would be your ideal old fashioned Christmas?

December Thoughts

Noticeable November is over. Did anyone else keep an account of things they noticed? I'd love to read about it. Email it to me or post a comment. Moving onto December. I don't have anything in mind...well, actually I do. My thoughts are my mind. So here we go for December Thoughts.

Going Green?

There is a lot of concentration to "go green" these days. Reducing carbon footprint. Being environmentally friendly. Tree hugging hippies. Save trees, water, energy, rain forests. I laugh to myself about this because it seems to go out the window for the holidays.

We drive hundreds, if not thousands of miles in our cars, using gasoline to get us to our loved ones. Or pay higher jet fuel prices to get us there quicker.

We use millions of wrapping paper rolls to conceal the millions of toys, gadgets, and doo-dads that emerge for the holiday season. Not to mention there's the fancy packaging they are sold in.

We print who knows how many Christmas cards, send with stamps, to be flown to their destinations, and placed in postal vehicles. Paper, paper, jet fuel, gasoline.

Then there's the Christmas tree. For Greenies who erect a live tree; the joke's on you. How is cutting down a real tree saving Earth? Yes, I know there are tree farms and such, but that also takes space. Clear-cutted space to plant specialized trees that grow quickly and requires water and fertilizer to thrive. Only to cut them down, drag them into an unnatural habitat (homes), adorn with shiny trinkets, and cram those wrapped boxes under. The boxes whose wrapping will be shredded on Christmas morning and tossed away. Well, recycled hopefully.

I know, it's all in the name of fun and spirit. Our home sports a pretend tree. I have come to recognize this is better for the environment, but we have an artificial tree is for health reasons. Growing up we always had a real tree. Every season my sinuses blew up like permanently inflated balloons.

With a fake tree, I don't have to worry about an insect infestation. Or poking an eye out when I crouch down to water it. There's less of a fire hazard as a fake doesn't dry out like a real one. And that piney smell! That can be saved for outside.

So there you go. An artificial tree is not only better for my health, but green wise, too. I guess I still have the un-environmentally friendly problem of Christmas cards and wrapping paper, though.

Noticeable November: River Rain

Okay, I forgot to write something specific for my blog this week. This was a class assignment that fit the Noticeable November theme.

River Rain

by,

Jennifer E. Miller

The river calls to many for fishing, but sometimes I think I’m here for the rain. Clouds hang low, bringing the weather. Birds glide inches over the river’s winding glassy surface in search of food. If I'm lucky, the steelhead will get hungry for the bait. There’s more here than I came for; like watching the river dance.

Inside the cover of the boat, I open my Stanley thermos. The cap unscrews to serve as the cup. I twist the valve slightly to open the pouring mechanism. The suction releases, telling me it’s ready. As I pour my coffee, the hot beverage meets the cool air and stream crawls out my cup in wispy vapors. I wrap my hands around it and soak up the warmth, enjoying it while I wait for the coffee to cool off before taking that first sip.

Pitter-patter of rain starts. Soon drops dribble down the side curtains and catches my attention. Looking out the side, I notice the river has become misty with haze of precipitation. There is not embankment on this section of the river. The rolling hills fold into the landscape. They make long earthy striations. Like fingers of a giant they jut down directly to the water, as though combing in the current.

As the coffee bean aroma fills my nostrils, I gaze out onto the water. I always liked the rain while fishing. The fresh clean air revitalizes the otherwise stale stank of the dark murkiness. Driftwood, white cap foam, and occasionally trash lap against the shoreline. Trapped, it’s all let to wither and rot with the sands of time.

The newfound freshness calls to me, reminding me I have cooped myself up indoors far too long. I needed a trek to the outdoors. But now I’m inside a man-made vessel surrounded by more artificial objects. I suddenly become aware of the gassy smell of the propane heater inside the boat. It’s not harming me; I have plenty of ventilation. But I long to breathe the natural surroundings Earth provides. Trapped inside with propane, vinyl, and aluminum, I need escape.

Stepping out of the boat's cover, I allow the fresh rain to fall upon me. It’s not raining hard, but many small drops fall quickly. They tap the water-plunk plunk-each making ripples. The ripples are plentiful and merge into one another. At the centers the raindrops which tap the surface bounce upward in an attempt to escape and return to the sky. They don’t get far. Gravity pulls them back to the river.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Noticeable November: Back-Whoa!

Continuing with Noticeable November. A little story developed from something I noticed the other day. 

Back-Whoa!

by,

Jennifer E. Miller

On my way home I have to pass a self-service car wash. You know what I mean, right? The kind with multiple drive stalls where you plunk a few quarters in and use a timed sprayer to rinse off your car. For a little extra you can use warm water; a nice feature when it's cold outside. A few more quarters gets you a soapy wash complete with the use of a spinning brush. Dig into your pockets for another handful of coins because you forgot about the final rinse. You're out of change for the air dryer so you drive home quickly to grab towels. Hopefully you get their soon enough to wipe off the water so it doesn't dry into little chicken pox spots. Yeah, one of those places. 

It's not really a place that is out of the ordinary, but what I saw there recently was. A large white dually truck was backing in. That's weird. Why would anyone need to back-in to a wash stall. Its set up is simple: pull forward. Even the automatic car washes have you do that. As I examined the scene more closely, I noticed that the dually was hitched to a platform trailer. On top of the trailer was a large back hoe. I get it now. The back hoe is being pushed into the stall to wash it off. Don't see that everyday. Of course, that thing sits rather tall when on top of the trailer. I'm not sure how anyone of average height is supposed to reach the top of the back hoe with the sprayer and brush. Perhaps the driver was just interested in spraying off the tires.

This is also strange. Is it normal to wash off equipment? Typically, when I pass construction sites after working hours, the tractors are just sitting there soaking in their own dirt and muck. This has got to be one filthy back hoe if it needs a cleaning.

I started thinking about all the reasons to use a back hoe and came up with only one: digging. Okay, how about places: farms, new construction, digging new cable lines, reaching pipes...oh. It hits me. Back hoes are also used to dig up yards to reach a septic tank. Particularly one that has backed up and overflowed. 

Ew.

Now I get it. This back hoe was most likely used to scoop up and set aside a bunch of shit and is, likewise, smelly. Alright. Starting to make some sense now. If that tractor was rented, then the rental store most likely doesn't want a piece of unsanitary equipment returned to their location. 

As I continued past the self serve car wash, my mind wanders about the poor soul who had to have their septic tank exhumed. I can imagine a stinky mudslide of a mess. Grass dragged out, flower beds overturned, muddy tire tracks on the road as the back hoe was driven up the ramp onto the flatbed trailer. Neighbors are standing at the end of their driveways or on the sidewalks, plugging their noses in disgust.

Finally I pull up to my house. I notice a note taped to the garage door. It reads: "My septic tank lost it. Did the clean up, but now returning the back hoe to the rental store. The smell should only last over the weekend." It was signed: "Joe, next door." Then I take a breath. And wrinkle my nose in disgust.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Noticeable November: Squashed Cupcake

Did you write anything for Noticeable November? If you did, keep it up. Share it, if you'd like. Did you discover anything?  

The following piece contains more abstract details. I made some far-reaching connections and I'm interested to know if they make sense. 

Squashed Cupcake

by,

Jennifer E. Miller

As a little girl, I remember wanting a certain kind of dress. Not a style or color, but the way the dress performed. It needed to twirl when I spun around. Watching other girls in fancy dresses, they would pirouette on their tip toes. Their dress would float around their body like a graceful dancer. When they stopped spinning, their dress would continue wrapping around their bodies until gravity and momentum forced it stop. The dresses were always glittery and flowy, with just enough puff netting on an under layer to add elegance without bulk. I noticed how the girls with these dresses walked proudly or skipped enthusiastically, the skirt portion bouncing with each step. They were excited to wear such a fancy gown. And they enjoyed their dress's performance as much as I envied it.

New holiday attire was a usual thing for my family. When I would hone in on a "performance" dress at the store, I was quickly shot down. Too expensive. Too glittery. It doesn't match any of my shoes. You'll only wear it once. But what I could never get across to the purchasing powers that be, is that if I got to wear a dress like that, it was like wearing a recital costume or a prom dress. Even if only worn once, it was going to create fantasies. I could twirl into a fairy maiden with magical powers. Or finally know what it was like to feel a dress come alive. I wanted to know that feeling I saw in other lucky girls who got to spin their way to their church pew. Or in line for Santa and pirouetting their way out of boredom while they waited.

In fourth grade, I finally got my twirl dress. It was soft green velvet on top with long sleeves and a tiny matching bow that rested on the neckline. The skirt was white sheer fabric, gathered at the waist, with a ruffle at the bottom and satin trim. Puffy netting was sewn in, giving my dress that perfect conical fluff. It wasn't glittery or overly showy. It was simple yet elegant. And it twirled! I couldn't wait to get home, throw it on, and spin on my tippy toes. I spun so much it's surprising I didn't wear a hole in the carpet. I felt so beautiful and different in it. Different in a good way. I imagined myself as that maiden fairy twirling, hopping, and flying around with magical pixie dust to make everything merry. When I wore that dress, everything was more lovely. The snow outside looked fluffier, whiter, and brighter. The holiday music was more jolly. Waiting for Santa's presents on Christmas morning didn't seem so far away anymore. I finally understood why those other girls smiled constantly at themselves while doting their fanciest dresses. They felt good; so everything around them felt good, too.

Fast forward a few decades and I have my own daughter who has eyes for fancy things, too. She has a twirly dress she loves to wear. It's sleeveless with white cotton lace on the top half. An empire cut waist gives way to a pleated bright pink skirt. The netting trim underneath is curled which gives the dress a unique shape when she spins. Instead of the entire edges twirling away from her in a straight line, the bottom six inches fold downward. When she spins, she looks like a delicious cupcake. A pink cupcake liner with vanilla frosting. A headband or bow represents a cherry on top. She has the same giddy look on her face as she dances and pirouettes, absorbing all the happiness in life at that very moment. I want to bottle up that innocence. Freeze it in time and release it upon a grim moment.

One day, she got her feelings hurt by a older kid. While passing out Halloween candy, a teenage boy grabbed a handful instead of one piece like she instructed. The incident made her cry because she didn't know what to do. He was bigger than her and she felt so...small. What I saw was a squashed cupcake. All the goodness and love and magic she harnessed from twirling in that dress had been knocked down and stepped on.

It took a few days for the pain to wear off but she managed to bake another cupcake with the help of some pixie dust I loaned her. I'm glad. A baker's dozen is actually thirteen. So when one doesn't come out right, or is dropped--or squashed--the remaining twelve stand; baked with love.


Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Noticeable November: The Bleeding Rock

I've come up with something simple for my November writing task and  I encourage others to join me. Notice anything and write about it. Possibilities include an object, scene, or even an experience. Don't forget to include sensory details, other than sight, when you can (sound, taste, touch, emotion, etc.). You don't need to have a blog; a basic journal will do just fine. Heck, even a paper napkin and a sharpie! Allow yourself a few minutes to write about your chosen subject and let your thoughts flow. Edit if you wish. In my Creative Writing class we have been focusing on details which is why I extended it here. If you are unsure of your writing skills, or this is simply a task outside of your comfort zone, I suggest giving it a try anyhow. You may discover a deeper meaning to why that particular person/place/thing was noticed. There is no right or wrong when writing, and it has no boundaries. If that doesn't make sense, write for yourself, and no one else. You may see what I'm talking about.

The Bleeding Rock

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

I finished up at the doctor's office and was on my way out. I looked out the window from the fourth floor and noticed a large rock across the street. It was massive, twenty feet in diameter, and round with jagged edged. Not smooth like a stone, but spiky like shale. It was a dark color, I'd call it charcoal. I don't know why I noticed it just then. The sun wasn't shining on it; in fact it was an overcast day. Perhaps with the leaves on the trees gone, the bare branches allowed me to view it. The shape was certainly unusual. My eyes were drawn to some sort of vine climbing up. The plant's leaves had turn bright red. They clung to the rock making a little formation; like a continent on a globe. I liked its natural beauty nestled amongst the modern buildings, roads, and cars. 

I stared at it for a few minutes intrigued. Intrigued why I bothered to even stop to observe it more than just a passing glance. Why the red vine reminded me of blood. Why I thought the rock was bleeding. Was it hurt? Sad? Doomed? Was that rock scheduled to be demolished next spring and this was it's final autumn and winter? I wondered why it wanted me to notice. Did anyone else notice this spherical formation?

Looking at the surroundings outside, the wind was scattering dried leaves about. It was a cool day and I imagined touching the rock's cool surface. I bet in the summer it was warm from the heat of the midday sun. 

Examining the rock further from the window I noticed there was no bird droppings on this rock. Strange as there were plenty of trees to welcome feathered friends. Perhaps the birds steered clear of it. Did the rock hold some magical powers? It was situated near a doctor's office, which was near a hospital. A healing rock? I felt a chill when I thought that.

I took the elevator to the first floor, walked out the building to my car. The wind continued to blow and now, I not only saw the leaves, but heard them scamper across the pavement. Soon I arrived at my vehicle, unlocked it, and climbed inside. Starting the engine, I looked around to see which side of the parking lot I should exit on. The traffic was heavier on the right so I went left. Reaching the outlet I stopped to check for oncoming cars. I looked right, then left, then center. The bleeding rock was directly in front of me. Looming. I had coincidentally steered myself in its direction. The rock seemed like it was trying to tell me something. Begging me to stop and observe it further. Red vine leaves danced in the breeze. Taunting me to stay. But I left.

I don't know why I notice that big round rock. Bleeding for something. Watching for people who notice it.

Copyright 2016 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Stalker

Stalker

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Rochelle leaned against the counter of Good Food Fast during her shift. She glanced out the window and saw large flakes falling. No one is driving around in this weather, she thought. It’s going to be slow night.

Her cell phone dinged in her back pocket, indicating a text message. She shouldn’t answer her phone at work, but it was from her best friend, Marcy. Plus, she was bored. Sliding the phone out, she opened the message. It simply stated, This just happened. Rochelle answered back with a ? A few moments later, she received a response with a photo. She nearly dropped her phone in surprised shock. A bloody sink. There was something in the bottom. She pinched the screen to zoom in and her heart dropped. Teeth. Frantic, she called Marcy, but all she got was voice mail.

“Marcy? Marcy? Are you alright? What’s going on there? Please call asap.”

How long should she wait? Five minutes? That seemed so long.

Her phone dinged again.

Don’t try to call. I’m coming now.

What do you mean? Here? To the restaurant? she typed.

There was no response.

I’m really worried about you.

Marcy has already left. I’m coming now.

Rochelle’s heart thumped in her chest. She felt her blood pulsating everywhere throughout her body. This wasn’t her friend. And if it wasn’t, who had her phone?

Looking around the restaurant she checked for any patrons. There was no one. She only heard the hum of the walk-in refrigerators. Should she lock the doors? They were supposed to stay open late for business. But this was a matter of safety. She wished her manager, Patrick, would hurry back. He liked to leave on break when it was slow. Except he took breaks all the time, frequently leaving her alone. Rochelle wished she had the tenacity put her foot down and said that made her uncomfortable. And it was against policy.

With her hands shanking, she dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1 what is your emergency?”

“Hi, Rochelle Stevens. I got some weird text messages from my friend’s phone. I think she’s in danger. She—well, maybe someone else who has her phone—also sent me a photo of a bloody sink.”

“What’s the address?”

“1213 S. Grove Street,” Rochelle answered.

She heard the operator typing.

“There’s no such address. Please say it again, maybe I misheard you.”

“1213 S. Grove Street. I’ve been there hundreds of times.”

“There’s no address on our street grid. Is this a prank? We don’t have time for those—“

“NO! Please send someone. And please send someone here, too. Whoever has Marcy’s phone said they are coming after me, too.” Rochelle started to panic once she realized the circumstances. Speaking them out loud validated them. It scared her blood cold, now.

“Where are you, Rochelle?”

“I work at Good Food Fast on Cherry Street. That’s where I’m at.”

There was a pause.

“Hello? Ma’am? Did I lose you?” She briefly held her phone away to check the connection. No dropped call. “Can you send someone please?”

“There is no such food establishment. We don’t even have a Cherry Street in this city.”

Rochelle was confused. How is it 9-1-1 doesn’t know these addresses?

“This is Lincoln Heights 9-1-1 center, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know my locations and where my friend’s house address!” Rochelle practically screamed.

“Calm down. Is there a landline available? If you call using that it will send the address directly to me. But don’t hang up your cell phone.”

“Ok. Yes, there is one here.”

Rochelle walked to the corner of the store near the refrigerator and picked up the beige telephone covered in greasy fried filth. Its long cord dangled from the phone down to the floor. She picked up the receiver with her free and pushed three numbers. It rang and rang.

“Why aren’t you picking up?” Rochelle asked the dispatcher.

“The phone isn’t ringing.”

“I’ll try again.” Rochelle hung up. Sometimes the landline acted up. It was old and it frequently got knocked off the wall. She placed the receiver back, picked it up, and dialed again.

“It’s ringing now. Once twice—“ she gasped.

“Rochelle? What’s wrong?”

“The phone went dead.” She whimpered.

“Rochelle, are you there by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Lock the doors.”

Rochelle ran to the front of the restaurant. She grabbed the key from the lanyard secured to her belt loop, shoved it into the lock, and turned it. The keys jingled as she fumbled with them.

The dispatcher heard it and continued, “Good. Did you get the back door?”

Rochelle ran to the back where the employee entrance was. She locked that door as well.

“I’m glad you got that taken care of, Rochelle. I’m worried about your friend. Tell me more about her teeth.”

“She sent me—“

Rochelle abruptly stopped. She didn’t tell the dispatcher about the teeth, just the blood in the sink.

“Rochelle? Rochelle?”

Rochelle reflected on her situation. Her mind was blank and running wild at the same time. Someone was out there stalking people. Was that same person corrupting cell phones? Was that even possible to do? She flashed back to Marcy. The bloody sink. The threatening text from whoever that was.

“Hello, Rochelle. I’m still here.” The dispatcher’s voice spoke softly in her ear.

“Can you help me?” Rochelle whispered.

“I don’t know.” Her words were flat and stern. They were no longer friendly.

She yanked the phone down from her ear and pressed the end button. At least that worked.

Thinking quickly, she looked at the alarm system mounted on the wall next to the employee entrance. She pressed a series of numbers and the unit flashed a red light indicating it was now armed.

Next, she made her way up front to the tills. The motion sensor was aimed in front of the counter, in case someone tried to rob the establishment. She slid over the counter and onto the other side. Simultaneously, she jumped and criss-crossed her arms overhead to activate it. A searing alarm went off.

Rochelle breathed a sigh of relief. The alarm company would get the message and dispatch the police. She imagined the safety of the red and blue lights and how she would tell the officers to race to Marcy’s house.

The alarm suddenly ceased. Buttons were being pushed at the alarm panel. Rochelle hear a familiar cough.

Patrick. He probably sucked down a half pack of Marlboros while he was gone. At least it was a familiar face. She climbed back over the counter and towards the employee entrance where Patrick was changing out of his snow boots and back into work tennis shoes. His back was turned toward her as he stooped to change footwear. His large winter coat swallowed up the slim shape of his body. As Rochelle approached him, she noticed he didn’t reek of the usual cigarette smoke.

“Patrick?” she inquired.

With his back still toward her, he held up his hand as if saying, “Hold on.”

Rochelle didn’t wait. “Patrick, I got frightening and threatening messages while you were away. I had to call 9-1-1, but something weird was going on. They didn’t have addresses in their system. We’ve got to get out of here. I’m worried about a friend, plus our own safety.”

Patrick didn’t say anything. He just shook his head.

An uneasy feeling engulfed Rochelle. Something seemed off. This whole evening seemed off.

“What did you do while you were gone?”

“Zey toog my teez, too.”

He coughed again, this time into a paper towel he pulled from his pocket.

“What?” Rochelle didn’t quite understand what he had said.

Slowly, he turned around. The paper towel was stain red. She took a step backward and looked up at Patrick’s face. His lips looked like they were painted with ketchup, but she knew what it was. Curling his top lip, he showed her most of his front teeth were missing.

Rochelle swallowed hard. Patrick collapsed onto the floor.

The next thing she heard was the knob turning. The door clicked open about six inches, blowing in large snowflakes. A hand reached in. It was grasping a bloodied wrench.

Copyright 2016, by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Ivy Alive

Ivy Alive

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

The low clouds sizzled as the storm hovered over a telephone post where an ivy vine wrapped around. The lightening zapped its energy into the wooden pole, passing it to the plant. Like Frankenstein, the vine was given life. It shook, twisted, and stretched across until it came to the house. Slithering up the side to the window, it clung to the glass. What it wanted was inside. Its leaf as a blade, it cut a hole in the glass and squeezed inside, down the wall, across the floor, and onto the bed. The ivy wrapped around the sleeper’s neck.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Factory Ghost

Factory Ghost

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Frank switched on the factory lights. They flickered and hummed to life. Throwing the apron over his head, he stuffed a rag in the front pocket. He grabbed the wheeled trash bin with a standard broom, dustpan, and push broom hanging off the side.

                The work was boring, but employment was hard to find during the 30s. Frank’s wages helped his family make ends meet. Mr. Manzini, the factory owner, allowed Frank to work later shifts which allowed him to continue high school. He preferred that someone cleaned after the plant closed, but was apprehensive about who he should let into his building without supervision. Frank was best friends with his son, Carlo, and had earned Mr. Manzini’s trust. Carlo worked on the factory floor after school, learning the skills of pasta making. He was to take over the business when the time came. Frank swept the floors and wiped down portions of the machinery. Mr. Manzini couldn’t pay him much, but, regardless, he was thankful.

There was a strange rule, however. He was not, under any circumstances, remove the crucifix off the wall in the hand-operated elevator. Mr. Manzini was adamant that it was never to be touched.

“When cleaning the elevator’s floor, take precaution not to even accidentally bump it with your broom handle.”

“Sure thing, sir. May I ask why?”

Mr. Manzini gave him a mafia-like stone cold hard stare. Leaning forward he said, “Just don’t do it,” was his answer.

Frank had gotten a chill. He couldn’t explain it, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna touch that thing. He also did not want to lose his job over a religious icon.

It was now October 30. Halloween was tomorrow and he was looking forward to festivities. He helped his high school put together a haunted house in the gym and carnival games for younger kids. It was also All Saints Day on November 1^st. Halloween was the day the evil spirits roamed freely to terrorize the Saints. Dressing up confused them, which kept the Saints safe for All Saints Day. Italians sure take that day seriously, he thought. Mrs. Manzini had nailed ropes of braided garlic over the doors and windows and placed additional statues of Mother Mary around the factory. Frank shrugged. A day early, but I guess they aren’t taking any chances.

He got to work. Starting on the first floor, he swept the office area and lunchroom. These were relatively neat and tidy. Mr. Manzini hadn’t asked him to, but he polished the brass doorknobs and name plates. If a business partner stopped by, there would be a little extra shine to the otherwise drab and ordinary offices. Frank felt those details matter.

Next he moved to the main factory floor. Here was the majority of his cleanup effort. Flour sprinkled the cement floor, dotted with the worker’s shoe imprints. He used the large push broom to sweep it into a pile. Then shoveled it into a wheeled trash bin with the broom and dustpan.

“Whew,” sighed Frank as he finished, wiping his brow.

He stepped off toward the breakroom for a drink of water. Grabbing a chipped glass from the cupboard, he filled it from the sink faucet. He took several gulps then dumped out the rest. Mrs. Manzini must have placed a remarkable about of garlic around this area because he tasted it in the water. He washed the glass to replace it in the cupboard, when he heard a noise. It sounded like something wobbling. Like a glass shaking in the cupboard.

Puzzled, he opened the cabinet door. Sometimes mice made their way in and Mr. Manzini wanted to be informed of the problem. He saw no evidence of the little critters.

Another noise.

Frank whirled around. This time it came from the factory floor. It sounded like the wheeled trash bin moved.

But I’m alone here, he said to himself. He sighed. The weather was getting cooler. Stray dogs or cats may have found a way in to keep warm at night. If that was the case, he must remove them. Animals cannot be in a place where food was made. It was unsanitary.

Annoyed, Frank made his way back to the factory floor.

He halted in his tracks.

The lights were out on the floor. Without the hum of the fluorescent bulbs, there was an eerie silence. Even though Frank couldn’t see a thing, he scanned the darkness, listening for anything out of place. His heart pounded and he told it to stop. Nearly a man, he couldn’t be scared of trifle things like the dark.

He ran his hand along the wall, found the switch, and flicked it up. The comforting hum resumed as the lights glowed once again. Someone had to have turned off the lights because he left the switch in the on position.

“Carlo, knock it off,” he said aloud. He listened for any snickering. If his friends wanted to pull a prank, this would be an ideal place; Carlo had access to the factory. “Come out you weasels.”

Nothing.

“C’mon show your ugly faces.” He was getting irritated. “I don’t have time for this shit, guys.”

After a pause he said, “I’m going back to work. Save your pranks for tomorrow.”

He turned and angrily walked over to grab the standard broom he left next to the trash bin. There was a dusting of flour on the floor.

“You guys are just giving me extra work to do,” Frank voiced. “Don’t wanna clean up after your sorry asses—“

Before him wasn’t just a dusting of flour. It was prints. When he arrived the flour covered the floor; obvious that the workers stepped in the flour. This was a print from flour. Someone had stepped into the trash bin, covering the soles of their feet, each step fading as the substance wore off.

Frank looked around again but saw no clues as to who was teasing him. He cleaned up the mess. He wheeled his supplies over to the hand-operated elevator. It tended to gather debris, too. He would clean it up and proceed to the second floor, which was more of a catwalk. Everything tended to fall to the ground floor anyway. It was really just the machinery that needed to be wiped down.

As he reached the elevator, he gulped. On the floor was the crucifix. That explained the wobbling noise, but Carlo knew better than to mess with that thing.

He got a chill again. If his friends weren’t here, who was? And what does he do about the crucifix? Replace it and tell Mr. Manzini tomorrow? He decided that was the best option. Scooping up the crucifix, he replaced it on the designated nail. As he secured it, he felt a rush of cold heavy air and an inexplicable feeling of dread. The hair on his arms stood straight up, and his hands began shaking. He

was suddenly gripped with fear, but he couldn’t leave the factory. His family relied on him to help pay bills. Frank took a deep breath and made the sign of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. That felt better.

             He swept the elevator’s wood floor. It was an interesting old contraption. At one time it was simply a platform. Heavier items were loaded onto it and hoisted to the upper floor by a rope and pulley system, operated with hand-over-hand effort. As industry safety standards advanced, three walls were added around it. The fourth side was left open for loading and unloading. Frank found the elevator interesting. He thought it would make a good sci-fi subject as a portal to another parallel.

             All Frank had left now was the second floor and he could get the hell outta there. He pulled on the rope, slowly ascending. The pulley creaked and rattled, echoing in the vacant space. Reaching the top, he wheeled his cleaning supplies behind him and toward one of the machines. He grabbed his rag from his apron pocket, squirted some solvent, and began wiping. A thin metal railing separated him form the ground floor. He looked over to see if he could spy the prank culprit.

Nothing.

He finished up, tucking the rag back into his apron pocket.

Whoomp!

Frank was whacked from behind--hard. It knocked the air out of him as he fell to his knees. Gasping for air he turned around, but saw no one.

            He managed to make it to his feet when another blow hit him. This time to the chest, forcing him back against the railing. Frank let out a groan.

            Still not seeing anyone, he began to panic. He thought about many telltale signs lately.

           “Just don’t do it.”

           Garlic. Mother Marys.

            A portal to a parallel universe.

            The day before Halloween.

            Could that be it? Did the Manzinis know something? If Carlo knew, why didn’t he inform Frank? Oh God. What evil is here now? And what will it do?

            Frank didn’t have another moment to think about it. The lights went out again. Stuck in the deafening quiet of the darkness, he whimpered like a frightened puppy. His body shook, involuntarily chattering his teeth.

            Soon he sensed a presence. It was close and preying on his fear.

            Frank suddenly began to gagged. His throat tightened and he couldn’t breathe. Instinctually, he threw his hands to his neck to remove whatever was strangling him, but felt nothing. There was nothing to latch on to and wrestle with.

            As the sensation intensified, he began to feel light-headed. His body became limp as he flopped over the railing, bending backwards. He saw a window near the ceiling where the moon shone brightly. As he tumbled over the railing, head first to the floor, he saw an apparition float through the window and into the night. 




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Doll Car

*Disclaimer: My Flash Fiction Fridays will be creepy themed for the month of October. I don't plan to have any live gore or mass murders, but please note I am writing out of my usual light-hearted style. 

Doll Car

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

He walked up to the garage sale and look around. There weren’t any dolls. He moved on to the next house. Several children played in the front yard, giggling and chasing each other. He saw a box of antique toys and rummaged through it. He found a rubber doll, probably from the 1950s. It had painted eyes that look off to one side, and a curly-q of hair painted on top of its head.

            Perfect, he thought.

            He walked up to the table, seated in the shade, to pay. The homeowner, a woman, was talking jovially to a girl friend.

            “I’d like to purchase this,” the man said. “How much?”

            The homeowner abruptly stopped her conversation. “The vintage items should have marked at—“

            She cut herself off. His appearance startled her. An obese man, dressed in faded black clothing. There were holes in his shoes. He had shoulder length greasy hair, and a missing bottom tooth. Sweat beaded along his temples. It was a hot day, but it added to the unusual feeling she got.

            “—those should be marked at $3.00 apiece.”

            “Okay,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

            He handed her three one dollar bills. They were damp.

            The homeowner took the money, making a mental note to grab hand sanitizer.

            “Thank you,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

            He nodded once. “You do the same, ma’am.”

            As the man walked down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, one of the girls playing noticed he bought the doll. She ran toward him and asked him why he purchased it.

            “I collect dolls,” he answered.

            The girl squinted up at him, blocking the sunlight with her palm. “But you’re a boy.”

            “I know. But I have a unique collection.”

            She stared at him, and then at doll in his hand, not knowing what to say.

            “I’ll be on my way now, kid.”

            He continued walking and turned around the corner. His enormous size made walking even down the street exhausting. The heat was getting to him and he was glad to reach his front door. There was no air conditioning, but a rickety fan oscillated from the front room’s corner. He reached for a glass and filled it from the tap; water leaked from the handle. Then he opened a drawer, took out a dish rag, wet it, and patted his face to cool off.

            After feeling more at ease, he went about his task. He slid open the cutting board and placed the doll upon it.

            Just dolls, he thought, never real.

            Reaching for the cleaver, he grabbed it. With a swift swing, he sliced the doll’s head off just under the chin, leaving a smooth spot. The body was thrown in the trash.

            He walked out of the kitchen into the dusty garage. Switching on the fluorescent light, it flickered and hummed to life. In the middle was a car. It was older; the kind with square edges rather than the round contours of modern vehicles. Decorating the car’s exterior were heads. Doll heads. His goal was to cover it completely, inside and out. However, he was selective on the dolls, only choosing the ones that no longer wanted. It’s the way he felt. Unwanted. Used, abused, and left for scavengers.

            He created a place for the lost souls. Convinced he wasn’t alone, the heads symbolized their existence. When he drove the car around town, it frightened people. They shuttered and turned away. He would make them see the terror inside of the unwanted. His mission must continue.

            Picking up the heavy duty glue from the tool chest, he walked over the car, squirted a glop on the hood, and secured the doll head. It's painted eyes hadn’t changed their expression, but detached from its body looked...empty.

His creation was ready for another roll around town.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Zombie Clown Bus

Zombie Clown Bus

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

It started as a typical day. Overcast, but not cold. I waited comfortably at my bus stop. When it arrived, I climb on as I always do. I spot an empty seat in front. Its seat back rested against the windows so I was facing the aisle, rather than forward. We pass other route’s bus stops. I look at one across the street. My gaze locked at the occupants standing under the little rectangular sign. It was a man and a woman and they were laughing. Their wardrobe was ordinary business attire. He wore a suit and she wore a professional looking skirt with matching jacket. A color scarf adorned her neck. What caught my attention was their painted clown faces. Creepy stalker clowns. I could almost hear their slow, deep, evil chuckles as we passed by. I was relieved they weren’t getting on this bus.

                Curious, I look to other passengers to observe their reactions; if they noticed the sidewalk weirdos. I jumped so forcefully my heart skipped a beat…more than one probably. Adrenaline surged and I felt the veins in my forehead pulsating. They were all clowns. And all of them in a daze of some sort. Looking down at books, cell phones, whatever happened to be in their laps.

                Gently, I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. What the hell kind of day is this?

                I blinked and shook my head, hoping the passengers would revert to their normal flesh-colored selves. They didn’t change. Then, habitually, I cleared my throat.

                Oh shit.

                The noise snapped the clowns out of their trance. Like wind-up toys on cue, they simultaneously jerked their heads in my direction. Painted faces stared at me, their bodies rocking rhythmically with the bobbing bus. An array of color displayed before me. Dark, dreary, eerie face paint. All the leftovers from a makeup artist’s color palette jumbled to make weird creepy color combinations. Grey was tinted with army green, sky blue mix with brown, black with violet.

                Not knowing what else to do, I smiled and nodded. I wished I hadn’t. They smiled back at me. Razor-tooth grins gleamed across their faces. Some licked their lips, slurping their tongue back into their mouths like a snake.

                Weirded out, I want off the bus. Will I run into other creep-o clowns on the street? I look at the driver. Seeing that he is a normal human being, I feel somewhat relieved and hopeful that there are still regular people wandering around. I will get off at the next stop and walk the rest of the way to work. It isn’t that far.

                Keeping my eyes on the “passengers,” I slowly reached back and pull the bus’s stop signal cord. I hear the familiar ding! but it also seems to trigger something else. Feeling drops, I look down at my hands and see water. I gaze up as one plops on my ear. Water weeps from the ceiling. Summoned from the pull cord? I don’t care. Get me outta here.

                The clowns continue to staring at me. Water drips on them, too. It begins to wash off their makeup in trickling streaks. As it continues their skin becomes exposed from under the makeup. But it’s not normal flesh. It’s dark, wilted, and decaying. Their grins turn to frowns.

                The bus comes to a halt. I leap out of my seat and dash out the front exit onto the sidewalk, welcoming the fresh air. I turn around and watch the driver close the doors. Pressed to the windows are zombie-like hollow faces with deep eye sockets and rotten skin. They watched me through the glass with gaping mouths and curled fingers as the bus carries them away.





Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Mummies

Flash Fiction Friday: Mummies

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

I started writing a story but it's becoming even longer than last week's piece. I figured I'd give my readers a break and share a recent quote from G.

"Mummies aren't scary. They're just naked people wrapped up in toilet paper."




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Non-Fiction Friday: Social Media Photos Are Destroying Creativity

How Photos on Social Media are Destroying Creativity

By,

Jennifer E. Miller 

Admittedly, I haven't kept up with fiction writing this last week. Instead, I have been working hard to keep up with my Shutterfly photo albums. My final Creative Writing class at SCC begins on Monday and I have a feeling I'll be busy with that. Anyhow, I've chosen to write about something I've taken notice to, and subsequently got me thinking, recently: photos on social media and how they are destroying creativity.

My news feed is littered with short recaps from friends about what they did over the weekend or afternoon or hour. That's what social media is about anyway, right? The ease of sharing our lives with others. Things or experiences bring us joy and, naturally, we want to spread the cheer. I have noticed that, accompanied with the seemingly mindless status updates, are gobs of photos. Photos of everything. "Took the kids to the park" has to have a photo of kids playing the equipment. "Oh man, what a workout!" is above a gym photo with a sweaty person flexing their muscles. Yes, the visual snapshot brings your words to life. But, most of the time, there aren't many details as to why or how the subject(s) in the photo do that. We have become lazy and allowed the photos to do the talking for us. Using photos to enhance our words minimizes creativity.

I'm just as guilty as the next person for posting photos on social media. It's fun and occasionally I like to sound off about something exciting, funny, or interesting that's happened in my life. However, I'm also a writer who understands that writing is an art, not just jotting down words. Finding the right words to convey a message can be challenging. Imagine a conversation where you're trying to explain (anything) to someone and your voice trails off because you just can't find the exact word to describe it. Writing is similar; words get lost. In addition, a writer can't as easily put tone of voice into the text, so details are important. They are the fundamentals of creativity. It allows the reader to build a scene, using their imagination, to bring the story (or message, idea, etc.) to life. But when a photo is introduced along with the text, it eliminates that creative step for both the writer and the reader.

Take my example "Oh, man, what a workout!" Imagine those words as a status update with a cell phone photo underneath of a sweaty person standing in front of machines or free weights. The subject is smiling with pride. The text is vague, so the subject/writer is compensating for lack of creativity with the photo. But, we get the gist. Someone exercised hard at the gym. The line "what a workout!" gives us the impression that the subject put in extra effort. That's fine and dandy, but how did they do that? Did they increase their weight load? Set a new personal record for a mile run? Took a week off from the gym and got their butt kicked? All of the above, perhaps? We just see the end result: I exercised hard, yet I'm still smiling. Basically, it's just another update that people will scroll past, noticed or unnoticed. Write some interesting details and a photo wouldn't even need to be included.

Another example of the loss of creativity, would be a cell phone snapshot of a tropical beach captioned "Hawaii is amazing!!!" First off, everyone needs to stop overusing the word amazing. It's become cliche and has no authenticity or meaning to it anymore. When everything, from your pet dog jumping through a ring of fire to the way those brandy-laced chocolate covered strawberries taste, gets labeled as "amazing," the word looses value. Explain how and why those things are amazing. "I'm having an amazing time in Hawaii because the sound of the breeze rustling through palm leaves is soothing." Now, doesn't that conjure up a feeling or state of mind in addition to an image? Yes, yes, Jennifer. But why use all that fluffy description when I can just include a photo so people can see what I'm talking about? Because the photo shuts down the creativity element. It's like forever reading children's picture books and not graduating to novels. Social media is conditioning our brains to rely on images to understand text. If you wish to tell a story with photographs, learn the art of photography; it's more than just tapping your phone's camera function. In the case of my example above, by including how and why the image made you feel amazing, connects you to the scene. Using your imagination, or creativity powerhouse, evokes creativity and imagination in others.

I suppose photos do substantiate what we say. Anyone can claim whatever they like. If we don't have photos to back up those claims, how would people know it really happened? Well, they don't. Your character should already be vouched for by displaying actions of honesty and integrity. Duh. That's stuff we learned in Kindergarten. I could easily say, "I won the lotto." Even though I'm an honest person, I'm sure nearly everyone I know would respond, "Oh yeah? Prove it." That's when I'd present a photo of me holding one of those oversize checks, like the Publisher's Clearing House winners. Now I've backed up my claim. Take the Hawaii example. If you simply said "Hawaii is amazing" most folks would agree with you. Hawaii is neat place compared to the continental USA, because its topography and culture are unique. But that's just a statement and doesn't personally connect anyone to the situation, so a photo generally accompanies vague statements or claims. Here is where I'm pointing out the lack of creativity: a snapshot with an open-ended statement doesn't allow me to rationalize your reasoning for why Hawaii is (cringe) amazing to you. When images are conveniently provided, it doesn't allow me to do any creative thinking. Now, someone who writes "I'm having an amazing time in Hawaii because the sound of the breeze rustling through palm leaves is soothing. I can't wait to show you my photos!" Oooooo! I'm visualizing myself digging my toes into the soft sand, the waves swooshing, and dancing palm trees nearby. I feel relaxed and I wonder if my friend's photos will live up to my conjured up images of Hawaii. The anticipation from the text allows my creativity to create visualizations. If I just saw a photo captioned "Hawaii is amazing!" I'd simply mentally shrug my shoulders and think, nice.

If we have the technology available for creating images and sharing them with the touch of a button, why not use it? Before the invention of cameras, people had no choice but use words to explain and describe things. Perhaps they could purchase a postcard of an artist's rendition of whatever the subject may be. So, unless you were Michelangelo, you used words. Postal letters, at one time, were the most advanced form of communication which, of course, required the art of writing to adequately engage the recipient's imagination to connect themselves to your message. It forced the writer to use details and specifics to sound interesting.

There is one last point I'd like to throw out there about social media photos: selfies are stupid! Okay, the random one here or there isn't a big deal, but haven't we all been subjected to self-obsessed person who insists on visually documenting themselves in every situation? Here I am, on a hike with my face in the photo because I most certainly will enhance the already beautiful surroundings. Yes, it will. It enhances your photo with the impression that you value yourself above all else. Then the next day, from the same person we may see: I got a haircut and it's fabulous, don't you think? Sure, but it's just an excuse to take a photo of yourself. A simple statement of "I'm diggin' my new trendy 'do" will do. Then again, it's just a haircut. Why is it necessary to make sure the internet knows about it? If the photograph eliminates creativity, and a selfie displays selfishness, then you are just cheating yourself out of finding your own inner creativity because you are too focused on obtaining attention.

While the above scenarios argue in favor of the decline of creativity when using snapshots, I don't think photos or social media are going away. They will play a large role in our virtual lives for years to come. I continue to stand by my belief that social media photos are limiting creativity because not enough time is devoted to connecting our hearts and minds to the scenario in question. Too often photos and selfies attached with quick notes and incorrect punctuation and grammar are how information is relayed. There is no desire to use effort and write out experiences or details if a camera does the talking. We should encourage everyone to treat social media as a journal to document detailed experiences, rather than just showing off with a parade of photos. Stories are important. Someday future generations will look at a photo of grandma in Hawaii and ask, "I wonder what she was feeling?"





Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: This Old Car

This Old Car

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

                Some say cars nowadays are mostly made for fun, convenience, and show. With engineering advancements, they are considered safer than ever. I suppose all that’s true, but I miss the lost generation of cars. The ones without gadgets, screens, and plug-ins. The ones with personality.

                Grandpa drove a ’71 Mercury Marquis clear into in the mid-90s. He owned it for so long, the registration tabs stuck out a good quarter inch from the license plate; years stacked one on top of the other. It was dark brown, a color that matched perfectly with his polyester slacks. The car was massive. In fact, it was dubbed “The Boat.” That thick metal monster could sink to the bottom of the Marianas Trench in record time. It had a cavernous trunk, big enough for two coffins to fit side by side with room to carry the headstones if necessary. Hey, did I just set a scene for a murder mystery? It was a stand out character for sure.

The inside held just as much room as its massive exterior hinted. There were bench seats in the front and the back; dark brown fabric, of course, and plaid accents. Six people could sit side by side and nobody’s hips touched. No elbow jabs or heads flopping over on shoulders during naps. And the seats were comfortable, too. I distinctly remember they had spring to them, like a trampoline. As a kid I loved climbing into The Boat, and forcefully plopping myself down to create a few bounces before settling into my spot to buckle up.

The seat belts were probably considered contemporary when The Boat made its debut. No shoulder belts though, only lap ones. It was neat how the lap belt retracted all the way into the seat, hidden from view until the buckle was pulled out. I had to be careful when unbuckling myself. If I let go, it’d zip back into place; possibly whacking a finger, usually to my arthritic Grandmother seated nearby. No wonder my grandparents despised modern conveniences.

It was an ideal car for road trips for several reasons. There was more than adequate legroom. Airplane manufactures should model their cabins after The Boat’s roomy interior. When I squeeze into an airline seat, I wonder why the Boeing didn’t pick up a thing or two from Mercury. In the panels next to rear seats, small circular lights glowed warmly on the dark rides home. The boat rocked down the highway in a comforting, soothing way.

Yes, The Boat had character alright. Grandpa added his own flair to the mix. The steering wheel had a wide diameter with a narrow rim. The horn wasn’t located in the middle, but around the inside edges of the rim. If the driver gripped too hard, the horn sounded off. I noticed this happened frequently when us grandkids bickered relentlessly. Grandpa’s idea of tolerance was “just git the kids home and let the women deal with ‘em.” As our bickering intensified so did his annoyance level. This led him to grasp the steering wheel tightly, thus firing the horn. The act may or may not have been intentional, but it got our attention and we usually piped down.

Something I greatly enjoyed, maybe more than anything else, was the treasure I found resting under the front passenger seat. It was just Grandpa and me in The Boat one day, and I was poking around to divert boredom on a mere 12 minute car ride. I opened the glove compartment, but there was nothing of interest except greasy tools and a pile of papers. Next, I stuck my hand between the seams of the seats, searching for coins. When I didn’t find any, I got the bright idea to reach underneath my seat. My fingers collided with a smooth cardboard box. I wrapped my little digits around it and drug it out. It was similar in shape and size of my pencil box at school. The lid opened upwards the same way, too. The one I found in The Boat, however, was an old yellow cigar box. I thought I may have found a secret Grandpa kept from Grandma. She’d be outraged if he smoked those suckers in the car. By now Grandpa had caught on to my eagerness. He just grinned and said, “Go on, open it.” Delighted, I threw open the lid. I got a whiff of tobacco, but there were no cigars. Instead I stared at several plastic squares which almost resembled building blocks. Eight tracks, I was told, for music. I found these antique cartridges profoundly interesting. None of my friends mentioned listening to any such things. This was a unique find. I read names like Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and Frank Sinatra; unfamiliar artists to me, at the time. I looked through the rest of the small selection and asked if there was one of Elvis. He was pretty much the only vintage singer I knew of and would surely liven up our car ride. “I don’t listen to that crazy stuff,” Grandpa replied. He grabbed one from the cigar box and inserted it into the eight track player. The bugle-y sounds of the Golden Age echoed from the speakers. He relaxed and sighed contently. “Still some of the nicest songs, aren’t they?” he stated; I knew it wasn’t a question.

Yeah, that car had personality alright. Even after the fenders rusted, the tail lights quit working, and the brakes became questionable. Cars today are cramped. Radios have been replaced by iPods. And where the heck are the bouncy seats? I was fortunate to drive The Boat once or twice before it moved on to a collector. I tried listening to an eight track, but the player had long since stopped functioning. The music would’ve been nice, but I was glad to have another 12 minute car ride with The Boat. What a character it was.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller