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

Flash Fiction Friday: At The Old Ball Game

Welcome, once again, to Flash Fiction Friday. Line by line, I have reverse translated the song Take Me Out To The Ball Game. For parents, it's not always peanuts and cracker jacks when taking children along. Enjoy.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game...

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Take me out to the ball game: “Take me! Take me! I never get to go anywhere.”

Take me out to the crowd: “I can’t believe we had to park so far away!...And there’s lines to get in; it’s going to take for-ev-er.”

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks: “Finally I can sit down. I'm sooo hungry I’m going to starve! And don't buy peanuts, I'm allergic; I want cotton candy.”

I don't care if I ever get back...without my kid who is driving me crazy.

Cause it’s root root root for the home team; if they don’t win it’s a shame: “Which team to we want to win?...The ones in the white jerseys? That’s a boring color, I’m going to cheer for the team with the colorful jerseys.”

For it’s 1! 2! 3! strikes you’re out: “Good, it's over. I was getting bored…Bottom of the first inning? What does that mean?...I have to sit here through inning nine?! How long is that going to take?...Three hours?!...Why did you bring me?”

At the old ball game!




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

The Allergist vs The Dentist

The Allergist vs The Dentist

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

“What do you mean you like the dentist ‘way more better’ than me?!” Dr. Reynolds asked Gia Milton.

“The dentist doesn’t poke me all the time!” Gia answered.

Dr. Reynolds was Gia’s allergist. Allergists like to poke and prod their patients. Blood draws, skin scrape tests, and allergy shots were all part of the package. Gia didn’t like it one bit. She was seven, which only complicated matters. Kids are notoriously unwilling to cooperate in these matters.

Gia was looking forward to her dentist appointment the next day. Not only was a visit to the dentist easier, they gave out prizes. Much better than the measly stickers handed out by Dr. Reynolds.

“Here is a copy of her test results, Mrs. Milton,” Dr. Reynolds said to Gia’s mother. We can start allergy shots on her next visit.”

She turned to Gia. “If you got to pick out two stickers, would you like me more than the dentist?”

“Nope,” answered Gia, with extra emphasis on the p. “The dentist lets me pick out a toy. And I get a brand new toothbrush with bubble-gum flavored dental floss. He doesn’t stick me with all those needles either.” A brief pause. “I’ll take two stickers anyway.”

Dr. Reynolds raised her eyebrows as she looked over at Mrs. Milton before leading them to the sticker drawer.

“Hey, I don’t know what to say. You have to up the ante,” said Mrs. Milton.

“I take it she hasn’t had the pleasure of receiving a filling yet?” inquired Dr. Reynolds.

“Not yet.”

Gia selected her stickers, thanked the doctor and they went along their way.

In the car, Gia asked, “Mom, what’s a ‘filling’ that the doctor mentioned.”

“Sometimes people have cavities, or holes, in their teeth. In order to keep them from getting bigger, the dentist cleans the tooth, and then places special material over it. It’s called a filling.”

“So, what’s the big deal?”

“Well, the dentist usually uses a special medicine so the patient doesn’t feel what is happening.”

“Okay…” Gia was confused.

“The medicine has to be given by a shot in the mouth.”

Gia gasped in horror. “Do I have cavities, mom?”

“I don’t know. That’s why everyone visits the dentist. To have their teeth cleaned and check for cavities or other problems.”

“I do not want cavities because I do not like shots!”

“I figured as much,” said Mrs. Milton.

The following morning brought the dentist appointment. Gia skipped into the office with giddy excitement. She was immediately seated in the splendid dentist chair that goes up and down.

“It’s like a carnival ride!” Gia exclaimed.

The hygienist cleaned and polished her teeth with ease. She let Gia pick out her toothbrush; purple this time. They had grape flavored floss with delighted Gia.

“I was getting bored of bubble gum,” she said.

The dentist came in to provide the examination.

“How are you, Gia?” Dr. Connors asked.

“Good. I’m really glad I’m here and not that stupid allergy place. They are always poking me. I told her I like the dentist way more better.”

Dr. Connors perked up, “Really?”

“Yep,” answered Gia, with emphasis on the p. “When do I get my prize?”

“After I examine your teeth. It won’t take long.”

As he tapped and poked her chompers, Mrs. Milton explained how visits to the allergist typically involve getting poked with needles. “She needs skin prick tests, blood draws…the typical stuff kids dislike.”

“I’m thrilled someone actually enjoys coming to see me, Gia.

Dr. Connors carefully checked all her teeth. He let out a disgruntled sigh when he finished. The blue latex gloves snapped as he pulled them off and rose from his stool. A look of disappointment was on his face.

“I’m afraid she’s got two small cavities,” Dr. Connors informed Mrs. Milton.

“Ok,” Mrs. Milton assumed cavities would happen sooner or later. Nearly everyone gets one at some point in their lives.

Gia had a look of dread on her face. She remembered what her mom told her about cavities and a shot in her mouth.

“However,” the dentist continued, “they are so tiny, I believe I can fill them without the need to administer Novocain.”

He turned to Gia and continued. “So there’s nothing to worry about, kiddo. You will come back and see me, I’ll fix your teeth, and you’ll be as good as new.”

“Do I have to get a shot in my mouth?” She gave him a cold glare.

He realized Gia hadn’t understood the word Novocain. “No. I think I can do it without the medicine. Then you’ll still like me more than your allergist, right?”

“Yes!” Gia’s eyes light up.

So that was it, thought Mrs. Milton. By skipping the Novocain, he was attempting to keep his approval rating above the allergist.

Gia hopped out of the chair to collect her prize trinket from the treasure box, and back home they went.

The following week Gia returned to Dr. Connors’s chair for the fillings. She felt a little nervous. Could the dentist really do this with the shot? And would the procedure hurt?

“Are you ready?” He asked her.

She sighed. “Yes. Just remember, I like you better than the allergist.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

Dr. Connors went to work by first showing and explaining all the tools and gizmos he planned to use. Then he eased her back in the chair to get started.

“Let me know if anything hurts or feels funny, ok, Gia?”

She nodded her head; her mouth full of suction tubes and miniature water hoses.

Everything went smoothly. The drilling didn’t cause any problems and Mrs. Milton believed she even saw Gia smile. He filled the cavities and set the cement will the funny blue light. A few taps on a black piece of paper to check her bite levels and she was all done.

The hygienist brought the treasure box to Gia for another prize. She was beaming with excitement.

As she was carefully selecting her prize, Dr. Connors asked, “How was the experience, Gia?”

“Good. I’m really happy you didn’t have to put a shot in my mouth.”

“Me, too,” he replied.

The pressing question hung in the air.

“So, Gia, do you still like me more than your allergist.”

“Definitely!”

Dr. Connors triumphantly thrust his fists in the air and exclaimed, “Yes!”

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: No Goofing Off

No Goofing Off

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

A shopping outing with my husband is usually a spectacle equal to that of a whining toddler. He generally doesn’t enjoy shopping, and browsing is out of the question. He likes to stick to a list. Yesterday, however, was an exception.

Tom and I had a few errands to run before picking up our daughter from the bus stop. First we stopped at an electronic store to research new computers. Our second stop was Costco, one of those warehouse club stores, with a small list: granola bars, crackers, allergy medicine, and grapes. I must admit, it’s a headache to shop there. The parking lot is consistently packed, items never seem to be in the same location, and the checkout lines are horrendously long. Tom doesn't shop here often, but he has been subjected to my rants. We pulled into a parking spot about a mile away. As we walked towards the entrance in the midday August heat, he said, “No goofing off. Let’s just get in and out as fast as possible.” Not goofing off meant no browsing. But I forgot how distracting Costco can be to those who don't frequent this establishment.

We grabbed a cart and went in. First we passed the electronics section. I noticed the computers and briefly stopped to price compare them to the electronics store. Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Hurry up and get on with the list. We don’t want to be late to the bus stop.”

“Okay, okay,” I complied. The computers will have to wait.

We continued on to the snack section which was only a few feet ahead. I steered around a table with neatly folded jackets.

“I was planning to buy the same granola bars as before is that okay—hey where did you go?” I said to, apparently, myself. I whirled my head around, looking for Tom. I spotted him by the jackets. I pushed the oversized cart back towards his direction. “Find something interesting?”

“These jackets are nice, and only twenty dollars!” he exclaimed. “I need a dressier jacket.”

“Those are medium weight outdoor jackets,” I said.

“No they aren’t, they are too nice to be used outdoors.”

I realized he spends far too much time in rain gear on a boat to understand what a “dressier” jacket actually is.

“When are you going to need a ‘dressy’ jacket? You hate wearing nice clothes.”

“I don’t know, but I suppose I will need one at some point.” He examined the jacket closer, checking out all the pockets and running his hand down the fabric. “Which color do you like better: black or grey?”

I looked at the other choices. “I like the orange one,” I said.

Tom gave me a look of disgust, grabbed a black one, and placed it in the cart.

We turned around to move away from the jackets when I said, “Before I realized you disappeared, I wanted to ask you if the same granola bars were suitable--“

“Whoa!” he interrupted.

A wall of beef jerky stood before us. It’s his favorite fishing snack and he was staring at the biggest selection available. There were jerky sticks, turkey jerky, and individual snack sized. Tom grabbed the latter and added it to the cart with his jacket. With a big grin he asked, “What were you saying?”

“You want the same granola bars or a different kind?” I scowled as I led him over to the choices.

He selected the same lemon bars I purchased before. Finally, something in the cart off the list.

We zipped across to the pharmacy area and I grabbed allergy medicine and moved on to the cracker aisle. Damn you, Costco, for placing chips next to the crackers!

“Oh, hey, I need chips. We are almost out at home.” He ventured through the chip selection and was disappointed in the available varieties. It was taking him a several minutes to decide and I grew impatient.

“I can get those when I do the regular grocery shopping in a couple days,” I suggested, hoping to speed up our progress. He already spent extra time on the jacket and beef jerky after scolding me for spending 17.2 seconds looking at computer prices.

“No. We’ll run out by then. I’ll pick something here.”

I reminded him that as we entered the store he wanted to simply get in and out as quickly as possible. His selective hearing disability must have acted up again because he ignored me.

Finally, he chose the individually sized variety package. I grabbed the package of Goldfish crackers from the list and we continued. I tried to take a shortcut through the housewares to get to the produce department, but I wasn’t cunning enough. He found them. The things that take up all the time in Costco. I should have known better. I was foolish not to anticipate it.

“Check out all the samples today!” he beamed.

Perhaps it was best I leave him while I finish shopping and get to the bus stop. After all, no goofing off. 




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Toots and Farts

Toots and Farts

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

      Kids have the most ridiculously uncensored minds. I was getting Gia (seven years old) ready for bed. She finished her shower and I was helping her brush her teeth, when she let a loud one rip.

I said, “You tooted! Excuse you!” In a few seconds, the aftermath presented itself. “Whew! And it’s stinky!” I pinched my nose and flipped on the fan. It spun to life as is desperately worked to expel the lingering flatulence.

She giggled with a silly guilty grin across her face. We finished brushing her teeth and she paused thoughtfully as we transitioned to flossing. She took this moment to tell me with wide mischievous eyes, “Mom, guess what? Sometimes when I’m taking a bath, I fart in the water!” Her hands flew over her mouth but more giggles escaped.

I gasped. “What?! Ladies don’t do that!”

She released her hand and said, “Yah. And when I do it, it makes bubbles! I can make a bubble bath with my farts. Isn’t that cool?” She threw her hand over her mouth again and resumed giggling.

I bellowed with laughter. How can a discussion about a fart-induced bubble bath not bring gargantuan belly spasms?

She continued, “I only do it when Daddy gives me a bath. He says he knows all about it.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, but I told him, ‘I bet when you do it, it makes the water all stinky.’”

I can’t believe our conversation has developed into this. By now my stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

“I’m telling you about it, cause I know you know nothing about this subject.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” She switched to a slightly more serious tone. “Because ladies don’t do that sort of thing; you just said so.” She put her hand to her chest, held her nose slightly upwards, and closed her eyes as she spoke. I think she was trying to sound refined, but it was only getting my giggles going again. Luckily, I stifled them.

“You know, you are a lady, and you just admitted to tooting.”

Her hands quickly molded into fists and moved to her hips as she furrowed her brow slightly.

“No, I’m a kid. I won’t qualify as a lady for a few more years. By the way, tomorrow, instead of a shower, I’d like a bath please.”




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Overnight In Paradise

Sunset at Quinn's Hot Springs, Paradise MT 08/05/16

This year was our 15th wedding anniversary. Like everyone says, time flies and it's hard to believe I've put up with T for that many years (ha ha ha). He surprised me with an overnight getaway to Quinn's Hot Springs Resort in Paradise, Montana.

I must back up a little to about a week before our departure when I sprained my calf. (It was evaluated by two different doctors to rule out other ailments.) I have no idea how it happened. Not knowing is irritating because I don't know how to prevent it again. Away we went to Montana, me hobbling along on my leg. The drive was only about two and a half hours from home, and anyone who has driven the stretch of I-90 through north Idaho into western Montana knows the beauty it holds.

Quinn's Hot Springs straddles MT HWY 135 in an area nestled between the mountains. The resort, lodge, restaurant, and hot springs are on the east side with cabins along the Clark Fork River on the west. We stayed in one of the cabins facing the river. What a treat! It was a luxurious cabin with a porch swing, fireplace, wine and snacks, and a fancy bathroom that occupied about a third of the cabin's square footage. We enjoyed relaxing on the swing and watching the river flow, which may sound boring, but we watched an eagle glide directly in front of us over the water. We could see his eyeballs, he was so close! An osprey soon followed suit. Once in a while a fish leaped out, leaving behind a ring of ripples. Berry bushes buffered the cabin from the river and bunnies frequently hopped out to grab a bite to eat. We enjoy wildlife and hoped more species would wander through the area, but these summed it up. It's okay, we'll take it!

Next was to check out these mineral hot springs. A cluster of pools with various temperatures contain the pumped-in mineral hot spring water. The temperatures change multiple times per day, but generally are about 106, 104, 102, 100, 95, 72 degrees Fahrenheit. They contained silica, sulfate, sulfur, calcium, magnesium, sodium, potassium, and iron. Each one has it's own therapeutic benefit and felt quite soothing on my sore leg. Something we noticed about the hot springs pools versus a chlorine swimming pool, is that people moved slower at a peaceful, easy pace; even the children and teenagers! There must be something to this mineral bathing business after all.

We took a break to eat dinner at the resort's restaurant and hopped back in the pools afterwards. That's when the storm arrived. Per policy, guests have to evacuate when there's visible lightening. Once it ceases for fifteen minutes we can return. While we waited for the storm to pass I snapped the above photo with my phone. Lightening brings empty pools, but beautiful Montana sunsets!

I loved the surprise getaway in Paradise. Planning even a small trip on his own is not typical of T, and I appreciate he went out of his way for us. It was relaxing and nice to get out of town. Here's to 15 years and counting.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: The Bookcase

The Bookcase

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

The bookcase stood against the wall in the waiting room. It was small, only two shelves, and coated with a chestnut stain. There was an aluminum monogram letter C mounted on the wall above it. On the floor to its left was a pottery urn with branches of pussy willows pointing up like spears. A single vase with artificial hydrangeas adorned the top shelf, along with a sign that said “A smile is the prettiest thing you can wear.” Only the bookcase didn’t feel pretty. It couldn’t smile. It was empty.

The bookcase longed for books. In its last home, it was crammed with magnificent stories. Their pages telling tantalizing tales of far off places, adventures, biographies, and even children’s stories. Thousands of pages of excitement lined up, to be read over and over again. Oh how the bookcase loved when the people came to it! Their warm hands over its wood, the oil from their skins smearing the chestnut stain along the edges, the creak in the floor as they walked away with a new adventure in hand. It brought the bookcase immense joy to hold the wonders that unlocked imaginations.

People surrounded the bookcase, squatting down to study the available options, selecting the right one to suit their moods. “Which one shall I read today?” “Oh! This is my favorite!” “I’ve heard of this title.” The reader gently ran their hand over the line of books, waiting for the energy to stop their index finger over the one, tapping it with anticipation. They leaned the top corner out first, then finished sliding the book from its resting place. Disturbed dust swirled and sparkled in the afternoon sunrays that filtered in through the window’s sheer curtains. A vertical empty shadow remained on the shelf. If a thick book was removed, sometimes the adjacent books fell over, tapping their neighbor. When more than one book was removed, the bookcase was left with empty spaces, like missing teeth. But it didn’t mind because this was the bookcase’s purpose; to house books and stories for all to enjoy.

Unread books intrigued people to return. The satisfied readers replaced the finished books and selected another. Sometimes they took a break, leaving the books to sit and enjoy each other’s company. It was rare all the books sat on the bookcase at once. When they gathered together, it was like a party. Each book talking to one another and altering their story. When the reader picked up a book a second time, it wouldn’t be quite the same story as before.

Soon the number of books increased and no room was left for them to stand side by side. They were placed on their sides, over the top of the vertical ones. They were placed on top of the bookcase. They piled on the floor next to the bookcase, hugging it. They overflowed, but the bookcase was happy with its growing family. It was more joy to bring the people.

One day, the books were taken away. Voices, belonging to the readers, chimed excitement of a larger space to hold their personal library. The bookcase was wiped clean and moved aside. The bookcase watched, heartbroken, as a new larger shelf unit was the replacement. It was sturdy, stark white, and clean. The bookcase wondered how long before the new unit was covered in finger stains or rings of coffee. The sun filtered through the sheer curtains onto its bottom two shelves, which occupied the same space as the bookcase. The shelf unit now had the job the bookcase loved and cherished.

The novels, nurtured by the bookcase all those years, were placed in their new home. Their tears of homesickness couldn’t be seen by the people, but the bookcase noticed. It desperately wanted to comfort them, but was helpless. It shed some tears of its own. The separation was difficult.

And so the bookcase was transplanted to its new location; an office waiting room. The decorations and adornments were pretty, but they didn’t satisfy the bookcase. Many people, potential readers, walked past but never stopped. It sat empty with nothing to offer. Flimsy reading materials sat on a low table in front of chairs; the bookcase longed for volumes of any story to hold and nurture once again. To bring wide-eyed joy to many more readers. To collect dust, be scuffed, and touched. It hoped that happened soon. It wanted to wear a smile and be pretty.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: The Trio

This turned out to be more of a character development piece. I like the imagery I used; perhaps I can eventually expand this into a longer story. What do you think?

The Trio

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

The trio walked towards the intersection near the interstate off ramp. The sun struck the sidewalk and the heat rose in steamy waves. Human hadn’t bathed or shaved in a few day, he desired the look of dirtiness. To conceal his identity, he sported a boonie hat paired with a pair of outdated sunglasses found at a yard sale. He lugged a metal-framed backpack, army green, stuffed with blankets and other lightweight objects. He only needed it to appear full. Under one arm was a square piece of cardboard. Dog walked in front of Human on a rope leash, held with the free hand. Riding upon the top of the backpack was Cat. She bounced with each step Human took, clinging to the fabric as best she could. She had on her best grumpy-cat face, except she wasn’t lying. 

                The practice was well known in this city. Persons make themselves appear needy, when they really aren’t, stand at intersections with cardboard signs inked in sharpie marker that read “Anything helps,” “Hard times, need money,” and similar phrases. They take turns standing on corners with solemn looks upon their faces, careful not to make direct eye contact with motorists, in hopes one will take pity and hand them a couple dollars. If they are lucky, someone hands them a twenty. The shifts are about three hours and can easily yield $100 per hour. Usually more. The organizing company, if it’s even classified as such, takes sixty percent. That leaves Human with $120, $40 per hour, on a slow day. Much more than his current day job of $17.50 per hour, and Uncle Sam takes a large portion of it. Begging on the corner is a cash-only business and he doesn’t have to share it with the government. It was easy money.

                At first, Human went alone. The cash poured in slower than expected. Many drivers handed him business cards with “call me for a job interview” scribbled hastily on the back. Some pedestrians brought him snacks or leftovers from their restaurant meals. Clearly, people felt sorry for him but he didn’t want their charity. He wanted their money. He had bills to pay, nagging student loans, vacations to fund, and two animals to feed. That’s when the idea dawned on him; to bring his pets along. They add to the look of desperation, and perhaps folks will see he needs money for his “dependents.”

                His plan was a success. His black labrador and tortoise shell cat made ideal ornaments to fleece citizens. A poor man with animals definitely struck emotional chords. They handed out cash with looks of pity and sorrow. He faked shame as he accepted the bills with grace, stuffing them into the ratty pocket of his cargo shorts.

                Lately, however, Human noticed Cat and Dog did not enjoy their excursions. Dog, who was active and friendly, did not display eagerness and joy at the walk down the now familiar stretch of road. Cat, an unusual creature, liked to venture out of her indoor domain and explore past her territory. Today, she growled and complained at riding atop the backpack. Both seemed aggravated on the way to the intersection.

                About half a block away from the intersection, Human could see the woman he was relieving. She packed up the last of her belongings and headed in his direction. He was annoyed with this girl. She wore her Ray Ban sunglasses; a big mistake. Motorists will question why a beggar wears expensive eyewear, and move on. However, he noticed today she had found a way to increase her success rate. She wore a thread-bare t-shirt, that hung off her shoulders. The front had several large holes exposing her belly button ring and smooth abdomen. She smiled satisfactorily as she walked by Human, her blonde braids bouncing over her shoulders. He suspected she gathered a bounty of business cards with personal phone numbers, in addition to a large sum of cash.

                Upon arrival, Human set his cardboard sign down and pulled the large pack from his back, careful to not knock Cat to the ground. Balancing her perfectly, he set the it upright on the ground. Cat continued to perch on the top. It was her preferred resting place during the shift. Dog sat down, panting with drool dripping off his tongue in long sticky strings. Human unpacked the travel water dish and a canteen of water and filled the bowl. He picked up his sign, held it with two hands, faced it towards the traffic exiting the interstate, and waited.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Right vs Left: Political Candidates Explained

Right vs. Left: Political Candidates Explained*

By,

Jennifer Miller

The media is inundated with reasons encouraging me to vote-in certain candidates; I don't need to mention names. My social media news feeds are flooded with various articles and opinions in favor of such-and-such politician. The election candidates plaster newspapers, mail flyers, advertisements, billboards, magazines, T-shirts, and yard signs. Why can't it be banished and we all quietly read our voter's pamphlet a few days before the election? Oh yeah, it's 2016; the year of utter madness and chaos.

This year is quite divided, politically speaking. You're either voting Republican or Democrat. If you don't consider yourself on any one side, you will most likely try to outvote your lesser-favored candidate. But just for the sheer fun of it, I'm going to break things down in a short, easy to understand fashion.

Republicans are traditionally considered right-wing, while Democrats swing left. What exactly do right and left mean, besides direction? According to dictionary.com Right comes from riht, an Old English word meaning "just, good, fair, and proper." Left is rooted to the Old English version lyft, meaning "weak, idle, and foolish." This is immensely helpful in making the current politics straightforward. If you want a "good, fair, and proper" leader, vote Republican. If you favor someone "weak, idle, and foolish," there's a Democrat for that.

Going even further, the Republican's mascot is an elephant which is considered a highly intelligent animal and can even comprehend compassion and cooperation. In contrast, the Democrat's mascot is a donkey, also known as an ass. They certainly didn't think their mascot selection through, did they? Therefore, they most likely won't properly think matters through in office either.

There you have it. You can vote for what is proper and smart, or you can vote for a foolish ass. 

*This was written for entertainment purposes. If you can't get a laugh out of it, consider lightening up.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Home Economic Problems

Flash Fiction is a very short story. I'm trying to stay more consistent with writing, so my current plan is to post a Flash Fiction (or it may end up as a Flash Non-Fiction) piece each Friday. If I miss one, feel free to hold me accountable. I welcome feedback.

Home Economic Problems

By,

Jennifer E Miller

It’s the afternoon and I want coffee. The pot has long turned itself off so I choose to zap a leftover mug-full in the microwave as my husband heads downstairs to exercise. I hear the TV switch on, the beeps of the treadmill, and finally his feet striking the belt in even strides. Sitting down on the couch, I put my feet up and place my coffee on the end table beside me with the intention of enjoying some time to myself. I begin the mindless task of checking email by way of my smartphone, when the cat climbs onto me. Between responding to emails and giving the feline attention, I forget about my coffee. When I remember, it’s cold. I now have a Home Economic Predicament: how to obtain hot coffee.

Plan A has obviously been foiled. Plan A is asking the husband to heat it up for me. But he’s downstairs and won’t hear my calls for help over the TV and treadmill noise. I can’t text or call because his cellular phone is MIA.

Plan B is me getting off the couch to do it myself. Plan B has no merit because the cat has made herself comfortable by curling up on my legs. Who am I to disturb her?

The unfortunate solution to obtain my caffeine is to sip it as is, cold. An awful way to honor coffee.

I struggle with guilt over my present situation because a good coffee connoisseur would never let this happen. A good coffee connoisseur would remember to drink it while hot. Actually, a good coffee connoisseur would drink the entire pot while it’s fresh. Or a good coffee connoisseur would go out and give business to the local coffee stands. Even further, a good coffee connoisseur would grow her own beans and sell a unique coffee variety at the local farmers market. That means the good coffee connoisseur needs a warmer climate which requires moving. This big decision requires careful consideration from the good coffee connoisseur…over more coffee, of course. Drat! Now I’m back to where I started!

The cat continues purring on my lap. Perhaps it’s time for Plan C: wait for Plan A to come upstairs.

Darn home economic problems!




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

The Penny and the Twenty

Image source: Wikipedia

Image source: Wikipedia

Recently, it has been announced that the familiar face of the twenty dollar bill will be replaced by a newcomer after protest of society's softies. Harriet Tubman will take the place of President Andrew Jackson. President Jackson owned slaves, an unheard of thing now, but a legal and acceptable practice during that time period. Harriet Tubman is a better choice for symbolizing freedom and the modern world. Nevermind that she was a slave which are purchased, you know with money. Now her face shall represent it? Seems a little backwards. Plus, I feel it's stepping on the face of our former leader. Admittedly, I don't agree with this change. I'm tired of so-called political correctness.

Unfortunately, money fuels the greed of pop culture and fame. The faces on currency carry a sense of power. There are other ways to signify an individual's importance. What about postage stamps? History books? Friendly conversation? Do people care about those things anymore? Of course not! America is obsessed with money money money. Maybe the mint should print geological landmarks on our currency instead, such as Old Faithful, the Grand Canyon, a Hawaiian volcano, etc. Then, perhaps, money won't be associated with a person's power. And the arguments over who is more important will cease.

There has also been debate over abolishing the penny. The one cent. The coveted collector piece for kids. It's the filling for glass jug lamp bases. It's provided luck when finding one face up on the pavement; avoidance if face down. It checks wear and tear on tires and provides exact change. Yet, the penny has suddenly become a nuisance. It weighs down wallets. Putting elementary math concepts in place to trade a merchant for goods, is a time constraint. Nothing is worth a penny anymore, so why have it? (Although, I remember a time when I could purchase a tiny Tootsie Roll for a penny at the local gas station.)

But has anyone noticed who is on the penny? Abraham Lincoln! The man who freed the slaves. Why remove a president from the twenty dollar bill in favor of a slave; yet propose to eliminate the penny, when it houses the face of the very man who set them free.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

The Evolution of Thermometers

The day after the Color Me Rad 5K, G came down with whatever bug I had. She woke up Sunday with a sore throat. Throughout the day she napped and was not interested in her usual weekend shenanigans. Her forehead felt warm so I dug out the digital thermometer which reads temperatures in eight seconds. Of course, sticking anything other than a toothbrush or candy into a youngster's mouth is met with a fight.

The first reading was about 102. Wow really? I took it again. It stopped around 101.5 then the numbers quickly climbed to 102.9. Whoaaaa! I performed a third reading. The same thing happened: reading stopped at 101.5 and then, oddly, zipped to 103.2. Ack! The thermometer's alarm went off and the screen flashed red. Hmmm. Well, regardless, she's sick so I gave her a dose of children's Advil. After some basic troubleshooting, I sent T to get a replacement thermometer since the device was acting strange. "Ask the pharmacy for a recommendation," were my instructions.

The pharmacy recommends the temporal thermometers like hospitals and doctors' offices use. At ten bucks it's about the same price as digital thermometers, and they are more accurate. Plus there's no refusal over an object in her mouth; just slap it against the side of her head. I can do it while she sleeps!

This process got me thinking about the evolution of thermometers. I used glass mercury thermometers when I was a kid. They're considered sinful to use now, due to the risk of mercury exposure if the tube broke. But back then, they were advanced technology. And every kid, desperate to play hookey, placed one against an incandescent light bulb. Ah! the fond memories of the poisonous glass stick! As a tiny tot, temperature was taken under my arm. As I grew, however, it was customary to change tactics: mouth readings. Mom shook it, ran the water over it, and popped it under my tongue where it remained for-ev-er! The thermometer had to practically poke my tonsils for a proper reading, enhancing discomfort. If mom thought it read too low, it went back in. If she thought it read too high, it went back in. When it showed the number she expected she'd say, "Yep, just what I thought." Mother's intuition was always right, I suppose.

At some point, digital thermometers hit the market. They worked the same way, in the mouth, yet came with so-called advantages. First, it was fast. Instead of forever, it only took half of forever. (Hey, any improvement is welcome!) Second, instead of straining to read a bubble of liquid against etched numbers, it gave a foolproof, digital reading. Third, they were safer. No glass to break or calls to Mr. Yuck. There were also thermometer tip covers for sanitation. Ugh! I hated those! The thick seams scratched my mouth, like a paper cut. There was always the worry that perhaps the cover didn't give an accurate reading. I was forced to endure another reading, this time without the cover. Poke poke poke! The first digital models were bulky. A cord connected the thermometer to the display unit which was about the size of a paperback. Eventually, battery operated ones emerged, with a reading in seconds.

The next new thing were ear thermometers, followed of course, by temporal models. These new devices are easy to use, but where's the fun and drama that came from the good-old-days?!




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Color Blasted

G and I participated in the Color Me Rad 5K today, Saturday, June 11, 2016. We walked it as the event is not timed and is simply for fun. By the end, runners are transformed into a rainbow (you'll see). It was cold, but at least it wasn't raining like the last few days. We had fun albeit a few kinks along the way.

I have done a couple of these color fun runs in the past but through a different organization called The Color Run. It zigzagged runners through the streets of downtown Spokane with various color stations throughout which splashed participants with dyed cornstarch powder. The first experience was 2013. The second was in 2014 with my mom. G had intended on participating; however, that year was particularly bad with her asthma and I decided it was best she sit it out. I wasn't sure how her little lungs would do with all that colorful powder. With her asthma under control the following year, 2015, I agreed to let her do it as long as she wore a dust mask. One problem. The Color Run was not coming to Spokane that year. She was quite disappointed and so was I, as I looked forward to experiencing this together. I promised we would do the next one that came to town.

The next one was Color Me Rad in June 2016. A different organization but the same concept, nonetheless. (The Color Run, as it appeared, was just not returning to Spokane.) I signed us up for Color Me Rad four months in advance because there was a two-for-one special, and you all know I'm all about good deals!

The week preceding the event, I came down with a sore throat. At first I thought it was allergies because scratchy throats aren't uncommon for me. When it stuck around and gradually got worse, I decided I'd better get it checked out. Lucky for me, no strep! I explained to G that we may not be able to do the Color Me Rad run if mommy didn't feel well enough (and hopefully she wouldn't catch my bug either). Friday night, I went to bed early. When I woke Saturday morning, my throat didn't feel like razor blades and my head felt much clearer. G felt good, too. Off we went.

Color Me Rad was held at the County Raceway, near Northern Quest Casino. It was a rather brisk morning at about 53 degrees with wind. We got started right on time at 9:00 am. As we approached the first color station (purple), I reminded G to put on her mask. I also brought one for myself so she didn't feel singled out. I'm glad we used them. The gal who dispensed color on us got carried away. She doused me directly in the face with purple powder! She threw so hard that, even though I was wearing the mask and sunglasses, the stuff managed to coat my eyeballs and fill my mouth! I couldn't see for a bit and thought my contact lenses were going to fall out; which would have caused a big problem when it came time to drive home. They stayed in place, but over the next half mile or so, I was spitting out purple loogies; which surely all the other runners appreciated! Luckily G was spared the pandemonium, although she felt compelled to frequently ask me if I was okay. And pointed out that I was already "really colorful."

There was another station, this time with slime, where the gal squirted my face. What is so hard about aiming below the neck?! She could have easily squirted it skyward and let it drop down on people. Sigh; whatever. (I did submit an email to the organization afterwards with feedback regarding this issue.) The remaining color throwers saw that we were wearing masks and were more respectful about where they doused us.

G got kinda whiney about halfway through and was ready to go home. She was upset because I forced her to wear the dust mask. She was cold and the wet slime was intensifying this predicament. As any parent knows, once a kid starts whining it becomes difficult to make them shut up. Sooooo the remainder of the experience was little....tense:

"I'm cold! I wanna go home!"
"Me too, but we have to finish."
(As she's literally dragging her feet in exaggerated agony.) "How many more minutes?"
"I don't know. Maybe fifteen."
(Time advances approximately 47.34 seconds.)
"How much longer nowwwww? I'm hungryyyyy!"
"If we run, we can be done sooner."
"No I'm too cold to run!"
(Mom starting to loose it.) "Quit whining and just move along."
(Wind picks up slightly.)
"Mom-myyyyyy....I want my gloves."
(Luckily, I brought them along.)
"My feet are tired. Are we there yeeeetttttt?"
(Me rolling my eyes and contemplating zipping over to the casino for alcohol.)

We both breath a sigh of relief when crossing the finish line. G's mood improved and she was even compliant for a few photos.

Overall, I like the The Color Run better. I felt it was more organized, had more energy, and the color throwers were more respectful. Surely it's a pain to block off all those downtown streets, but it's a prettier course, in my opinion. The County Raceway is more convenient as far as setup and cleanup, but walking around a maze of automobile racetracks doesn't make for an encouraging or enthusiastic atmosphere. Plus, spectators have to make an effort to come to the venue, where as downtown naturally attracts herds of people making it easy to join the vibe. We might just be done with these types of runs anyhow based on this year's experience. By now, I'm sure you want to see photos so here they are:

Before. Nice and clean.

After. She really wanted to show off her green hair

This was one of her grumpy moments.Apparently skipping over the rumble strips was therapeutic.    

   She finally stopped to let me get a mid-race photo with a sprinkle of color.

                                          

G wanted to take my picture.....      

 ....after I snapped hers.

                                                

And here we are, all colorful and cheery and rad.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller