Space

This isn't from a prompt, but from something we talked about during Sunday school last week. I'm going to try to work this out by writing. I'm sharing it since I hope it somehow helps you.

The passage we were discussing was Ephesians 3:14-21, but it wasn't really about that, at least not the actual words.

It was more about the way the words made me feel. I could tell that the author (Paul or whoever) wanted to be affirming and loving and he wanted give these disciples who were so horribly oppressed some sense of hope. "It all makes a difference," he is saying.

But  when I read the words, I felt, well, oppressed myself. Constricted by the apostle's words. I couldn't figure out why.

It's times like these when I really appreciate Sunday school. There's a community there where we help each other struggle with the Bible, and with God and our place in God's world.

What I got from the discussion, largely with the help of Erin and Alyssa, is that the passage is so specific, so crystal clear in what the apostle thinks God is doing, that there doesn't seem to be any room for me in there.

Now, I know that, as with most things related to theology, there's a lot of magnetism at the poles. Either you should just shut up and let the Bible tell you what God is doing in the world, or you should just speak up, because what's in the Bible is nothing but conjecture by people 2000 years ago. I don't think either pole is right.

I just think that when you love someone, you make space for them. If you love your wife, maybe you see a movie you wouldn't otherwise, or maybe you change your behavior because, well, because you want her in your life. If you love your mother, maybe you put up with some of the things that drive you crazy because the world is better with you crazy and her there.

And I know that God loves me, and God loves you, and that means that God leaves space in God's world for you. It's not a kingdom of love if all anyone does is follow orders and force themselves to want The Right Things.

John, a wonderful person, a Presbyterian pastor, whose blog I read recently lost his son. I don't know details, and I don't need to know them, but I do know that the loss was sudden and unexpected and the young man was too young to die. When I read John's blog, reading the edges of his grief, it seems important that whatever the Kingdom of God means, it must contain a space for him and the joy he felt from his son and the grief he feels now. Not just Joy and Grief, not just the concepts, but his joy and grief, which is both different from and the same as all the other grief there is, ever was, and ever will be.

So, basically, if anyone can comprehend the dimensions of Christ's love as the apostle says, then I'm really wrong about, well, just about everything. And there can't be only one way to react to God's love.

I'll gladly give up on even the concept of ever really understanding Christ's love if there can be room in there for John and his son, because then, maybe, there's room for me.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

51: A Use for Tissue

The prompt was to come up with a bunch of uses for tissue, and then write about one of them.

Many years ago, I saw a woman crying.

I walked by, 

uncomfortable.

I didn't know her.

What would I say?

What if she thought...

It wasn't my business.

Steps later 

When I thought...

When I turned back, to be who I wanted to be,

it was too late.

I hope someone was

the me I wanted to be.

I hope they listened to the woman.

I hope they cried with the woman.

I hope they gave the woman a tissue.

I hope God forgives me.

Especially since

It wasn't the last time.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

50: The Dealer

The prompt was to write about a town that lost its supply of... well, you'll see.  (By the way, it's not poetry, though it might look like it.)

Hey, you!

Yeah, you!

Come here.

Are you a cop? No? Good.

You want a little action? You want a little stuff?

Yeah, the white stuff. Shh. Not so loud. Keep it down. You never know who's listening.

I can get you the brown stuff too, even rocks. Raw, processed, however you want.


Hey, you!

Yeah, you!

Come here.

Are you a cop? No? Good.

You want a little action? You want a little stuff?

Yeah, the white stuff. Shh. Not so loud. Keep it down. You never know who's listening.

I can get you the brown stuff too, even rocks. Raw, processed, however you want.

It's the real stuff, none of that fake stuff the Blues and the Pinks and the Yellows try to sell you. And it's not that HFCS stuff either

I can get it for you by the cup, or by the bag, or whatever you want.

It's good stuff too. Give you a real kick.

So, we got a deal? We got a deal, right?

Yeah?

OK, so how much sugar to do you want?

[Dear Stand-Up Comedian (or perhaps Really Funny Friend of Mine) who did a short bit that inspired this piece, please accept my sincere apologies for not remembering who you are. -THR]

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

49: A Rainy Evening at Home

The prompt is to write 250 words on what I do on a rainy day. Oh, I don't know, this seems fairly typical...

It's cozy inside as the rain falls on the roof and windows. The water sloshes down the drainpipes and splashes on the gravel driveway. I'm sitting in my chair, reading through some magazines, listening to some soft music, looking at my old journals. I look through some notes about a project I'm working on, a project I should really finish sometime. Occasionally, I get up to stretch my legs, or perhaps to get a little tea, and peer out the window at the tempest outside.

I return to my comfortable chair and my reading and my music. It's nice to be inside where it's dry. After a few minutes, it sounds like the storm is really kicking up outside. The wind is blowing the drops against the windows. They're hitting hard, almost like hale. I hope the power doesn't go out. There's fresh meat in the refrigerator upstairs, and I don't want to have to get the generator going again.

A flash of light and then thunder rattles the windows. The power of it is so awe inspiring. There's another strike, then, after a moment, another, close enough that I can hear the thunder crackle like foil.

It looks like it's time. I climb the stairs and take the meat out of the fridge. I throw the switches. The machinery crackles into sparks and motion. I stand on the platform with my project as it rises up through the opening in the ceiling. Lightening flashes again and again.

IT'S ALIVE!

If you're keeping score at home, I've done a story about a vampire, a monster, a psychotic Smurf, an evil genius and now Victor Frankenstein. What can I say? I write what I know.

  

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

48: Freewrite on Anger and Grief

Prompt #48 is to do a 5-minute freewrite with the phrase "Anger suffers as grief withdraws." I admit not to knowing what a freewrite was until I looked it up on wikipedia. Basically, it seems like the idea is to just write, keep the pen moving or the keys hammering for a certain amount of time. Spelling or grammar or even making sense is unimportant. It's not generally supposed to be actual writing, but a kind of warm-up exercise for the writer's benefit. I admit to having written what follows elsewhere and then looking through it to make sure I didn't say anything I wouldn't want to make public before copying it here.

This whole public freewrite thing is, frankly, terrifying.

Anger suffers as grief withdraws. I think anger points often points to forgiveness or where forgiveness should be anyway. Anger is sometimes something more, though. I get angry a lot it seems, and I don't like it. I try to avoid it when I can.

Sometimes, I think grief is something I can live without, and sometimes I think it makes things better somehow. Like marking where something is wrong. When that emptiness goes, it seems like there ought to be some mark. When the grief drops away, when the sting of it vanishes, or subsides, it seems like there ought to be something else there.

But when grief withdraws, makes itself small so that you don't notice it anymore, don't feel the emptiness as much, then it's hard for anything to go there. Not anger, not happiness, not anything but just numbness, like a drug, like part of your nervous system was just cut away.

It's hard to think sometimes. Anger doesn't really suffer. At least my anger just makes me suffer. I don't like being angry. I avoid it when I can. I don't like talking politics with people who just try to get angry. A lot of times that what I see people doing: doing politics and getting angry, like the enjoy the anger, relish it. They pick a side, and it really doesn't matter whic, but they just get angry at the other side. It's liek a game.

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

47: The Sunshine Plate

The prompt is 500 words or less on a "plate of sunshine." I don't want to write about food, so here's something else.

The car was orange, bright orange. It was one of those curvy convertibles that probably came from Europe. The license said "SUNSHINE". I wasn't sure who would drive a bright orange curvy sports car with a plate of SUNSHINE. It was a Louisiana plate, but maybe they're from Florida?

I stood in the parking lot staring at the car. I mean, it was there amid the dark blue minivans and silver luxury cars, and green clunkers. The car just seemed so alien, so out of place.

"Hi," said a voice from behind me.

I startled out of my reverie.

"It's a great car, isn't it?"

The speaker was a woman in jeans and an over-sized yellow T-shirt. The shirt said, "SMILE!" She looked to be maybe fifty. Her long hair, streaked with gray, ran down her back. She carried a shopping bag which she tossed in the back seat of the SUNSHINE car.

"It certainly is different," I said. "Are you from Florida?"

"No, honey," she said, laughing a little.

"Why the SUNSHINE plate?" I asked, then immediately thought better of it. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

"Don't worry about that, hon," she said. "Don't you think there should be more sunshine in the world?"

"I guess," I said.

"You're judging me, aren't you?" she said, leaning back against the car. As I sputtered, she said, "Don't worry, hon. Everybody does. Everybody tries to put me in a box. Nothing to be ashamed of."

Who strikes up conversations like this with strangers in parking lots?

"Aren't you worried I'm a crook?" I asked. "Aren't you afraid I might hit you over the head and take your car? Maybe kidnap you?"

"Oh, hon, I'm so sorry for you," she said. "Let's see, did you put me in the old-lady-trying-to-act-young box? Or do you want me in the crazy-old-girl-with-too-much-money box? Or the hippie-who-doesn't-know-the-60s-are-over box?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think I'm trying to put you in a box. I don't know what kind of box you'd fit in. I don't know you at all."

"And now I'm not as sorry for you as I was," she said.

"You like standing out, don't you?" I said. "The car. You're look. I think my wife would say you're too old to wear your hair that long."

"No, I don't like standing out, hon," she said. "I just think that I should. Most people who stand out now are the kind of people who hit people over the head. I don't want them to be the only ones who stand out."

She paused a minute, then started, "When stuff happens..."

She shook her head, then said, "Well, I hope you have more sunshine, hon."

"I'd like that," I said.

She climbed into the car, saying, "And now, I'm not sorry for you at all."

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

46: Boy vs. Lawn

The prompt today is to write 200 words describing a hot day.

Even the dog knows enough to get into the shade. It's only 9:00, but the sun is already poaching the boy in humidity. Why was Dad so obsessed about the lawn? Why can't we just let the grass grow, like in a national park? People pay money to go to national parks!

The lawn mower curses the boy and starts.

Soon, sweat wets his hair and plasters his shirt to his skin and stings his eyes. He told Dad the Gatorade commercials said he was losing vital electrolytes. Dad said he'd survive.

He tries ignoring the heat, pushing the mower forward and back across the lawn. Stop. Bag the mulch. Leave the bag. Drink from water bottle. Restart the mower. Repeat. Repeat.. Repeat.

We need a riding mower. The lawn's at least 50 feet across. Do they make riding mowers with air conditioning?

Up to the tree. He can't think about anything but the heat.

He thinks about Holly. How she sits at her school desk. How she plays with her hair. Her smile. That actually helps a lot.

Finally. Haul the bags to the curb. Done.

Tell Dad.

 

Run the six blocks to the sno-ball stand where Holly works.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

45: Bwah Ha Ha Ha

The prompt is to write 200 words on "garnish of joy."

Since future generations will wonder at this, my fortress built into the volcano Mokombo, and will benefit from knowledge of my humble but exceptional beginnings, I will briefly forestall my plans for world conquest  and describe the origins of my genius.


As a child, I discovered that the world is saturated with sadness: sadness when Mother told me of the death of my beloved dog Yankee; sadness as I became increasingly frustrated in school as teachers refused to accept my genius; sadness when in adolescence the pretty girls reveled in my humiliation, refusing my advances despite my obvious charms and resources; sadness at my grandparents' funerals. My own parents even refused to allow me to remain at home while I began assembling my forces for world conquest.

There is happiness in the world, but it is nothing but a cruel promise. It is as inconsequential as the sprig of parsley on the steak of the world, a garnish of joy, so to speak. But some of that joy will soon be mine when my plans come to fruition, when the world bows to my brilliance. Then, when others find the sadness that I have lived with all my life, I will laugh.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

44: Batgirl Meets Shaggy

The prompt today is to put Shaggy from Scooby-Doo and Batgirl in an elevator and write a 200-word scene. I've been looking forward to this one. My daughter's incredible take on this prompt is here. She was looking forward to it too.

Batgirl leaped into the elevator, her cape flowing behind her.

"Zoinks!" shouted the man already there.

The doors closed.

"Citizen!" Batgirl said. "What are you doing here?"

"Like, a bat, man!" the man cried.

"Be calm, sir," Batgirl said. "I'm Batgirl."

"Like, I'm Shggy," the man said. "You're really Batgirl?"

Second floor.

"Yes," Batgirl said. "Sir, a very dangerous criminal is on the fifth floor."

"A g-g-g-g-ghost!" Shaggy said.

"No, sir," Batgirl said. "A criminal called the Ghost. There are no real ghosts."

"You sound like Velma," Shaggy said.

Third floor.

"Sir," Batgirl said, adjusting her utility belt against her skin-tight costume, "this is no place for civilians. There are hostages."

"I know," Shaggy said. "Like, they're my friends. The g-g-g-ghost got Scooby!"

"Scooby?" Batgirl asked.

"My friend," Shaggy said. "I've got to rescue him!"

Fourth floor.

"The Ghost is a criminal and I'm an accomplished crime-fighter," Batgirl said.

"Scooby's my friend!" Shaggy said.

"Well, Mr. Shaggy," Batgirl said,  "don't get in trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," Shaggy said, producing from his pocket a couple of pellets. "Scooby snack?"

"No, thank you," Batgirl said.

Shaggy gulped them down just as the elevator doors opened.

Batgirl said, "Do I smell canabis?"

Fifth floor.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

43: The Evening of the First Day of the Week

Prompt 43 asked what a "string of laughter" made me think of. The answer is what my friends and I know as Communion at the No Peanut Table. But I've told that story enough. Here's a story I put together while thinking about the No Peanut incident.

In the evening of that first day of the week, the disciples had met together with the doors locked for fear of the Jews. -John 20:19a (J.B. Phillips Translation)

Peter looked around at his friends. It had only been a little more than two days, since his teacher and friend and the son of the living God had died as a common criminal on a Roman cross. And he, Peter, had denied three times that he even knew the man who meant everything to him.

Philip was pacing the floor, jumping at every sound. Thaddeus sat in a corner, staring off into space. The others kept themselves busy by doing little chores or arguing. They were frightened, not the least because it seemed like someone had stolen Jesus's body. The women had found the tomb empty that morning.

Peter knew what he had to do, and he hoped that, if things didn't work out right, they'd all forgive him. Somehow.

"Thomas was right," Peter said at last.

"What do you mean?" John asked. "Where is Thomas?"

"Thomas left. He told me this morning that we were all cowards," Peter said. "He said that he felt that despite everything that happened, we should continue going out and helping people, doing the kinds of things Jesus wanted us to do."

"But you saw what they did to Jesus!" Philip said.

"How can I show my face again," Thaddeus said. "I told everyone that he was the Messiah."

Simon the Canaanite asked, "Well, do you agree with him?" 

"What did you say?" John asked.

And here it was, Peter thought. Let's hope this works.

"I denied it," Peter said. Then, after a minute, he added, "It's kind of what I do these days."

John looked at him with shock. How could he be so tasteless.

But then, Andrew caught Bartholomew's eyes, and they both started laughing.

Then the sons of Zebedee, John and James, started laughing too.

Then Matthew, and Simon the Canaanite, and the others one by one started laughing, as if a string of laughter were being pulled around the room.

By this time Andrew and Bartholomew were laughing so hard that they were raising their hands and trying to catch their breath.

Peter started laughing with them. And then, finally, John smiled, and giggled, and started laughing.

And then they were all laughing, all of them, some of them doubled over. They weren't laughing at the joke anymore, they were laughing because they wanted to laugh, because they were together and that, even despite everything that happened and everything that would happen, they had three years with Jesus and who knows how many with each other and it just felt good to laugh.

And when they had all gotten so that their cheeks were hurting and tears were streaming down their cheeks from all the guffaws and joy and then...

Jesus came and stood right in the middle of them and said, “Peace be with you!” -John 20:19b (J.B. Phillips Translation) 

If you're wondering what the apostle Thomas was doing all this time, I have written a much longer piece about that too, but I think it needs some serious editing and re-writing.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

42: Trapped

The prompt is to write about changing or disguising one of my physical features. I think I'd rather tell a story from first-person about someone who isn't me. This one is pretty dark.

It's not hard most of the times. Long pants if the legs are bruised, long sleeve shirts if it's the arms. I'm careful  about letting the blouse ride up or the jeans ride down even a bit.

He usually stays away from my face. It's only once or twice a year I have to lie to my friends and tell them that I hit my head on the door or tripped down the stairs.

I don't want him to hit me, but I know he loves me, and I love him too, so I don't know what to do. A lady at work who didn't believe my "silly me tripped in the bathroom" story told me I should just leave him, but I can't do that. He loves me. I don't want to hurt him, not even when he hurts me.

It's bad when he drinks, but it's not just when he's drunk. He's got such a crummy job, and he can't very well hit his boss, can he? He can't hit his stupid co-worker? He comes home, and he can hit me. And maybe he feels powerful and maybe he can let go some steam. He only has the job so he can help support me, right?

I want him to touch me. I even like it when he pats my behind or stuff like that. We used to wrestle sometimes, play around. That was fun.

I don't want to make things worse for him.

I just don't want to wake up hurt and hope I'm not hurt too bad. I just want him to be happy, so we can be happy together.

And I pray, oh God I pray that we won't have any kids until we can work this out.

I need help, but I don't think anyone understands.

If this is you, or if this is your girlfriend or wife, please get help. It's not as hopeless as it looks, and there are people who might just understand. Here's one place to start looking. A church or synagogue may be another possibility.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

41: Friday the Smurf-teenth

The prompt for today was to describe a time when I hid from someone or disguised myself. One year, I dressed for Halloween as Psycho Smurf: blue clothes, blue makeup on my head and hands, and a fake knife whose blade retracted. Pscycho Smurf always wanted to tell his story:

They bleed blue, you know. They never show that in the comics or TV show, but they bleed blue. And they scream, though not if you do it smurfy enough.

Most smurfs are three apples high. I'm more than twenty-eight apples high. Do you know how badly they make fun of you when you don't fit in... literally??? Do you know how un-smurfy those little blue guys can be? They point at you, and shout, "I bet you smurf in a smurfy smurf!" They won't invite you to the smurfy parties. They steal your smurfiest stuff!

One day I found this smurfy knife. See how smurfy it is? It's so shiny and smooth and sharp and sharp and...

Well, when you put one of these in those little guys' face, they get real smurfy real quick. Papa Smurf stops with the folksy advice and starts with the respect. Even Smurfette starts acting nice to you.

And if they're not, well, then you get to find out what color they bleed, don't you?

The doctors say I shouldn't be outside, but they're not very smurfy, are they?

Just as a note, the Smurf's homepage is www.smurf.com. Psycho Smurf is, of course, a parody of the actual Smurfs, who would never do anything so un-smurfy as make fun of smurfs that are different.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

40: The Traffic Circle of Doom

Today, I'm supposed to write about something that annoys me.

They put a traffic circle (what you might call a roundabout) at an intersection in my home town of Slidell, Louisiana recently. From the conversations I heard from friends and acquaintances, you might have thought that it was specifically planned to kill as many Slidellians as possible.

Some Slidellians thought that most (other) Slidellians were too stupid, stubborn, or scatterbrained to figure out how such a thing as a traffic circle worked. There were predictions of massive accidents, huge traffic tie-ups, the downfall of democracy and the beginning of a thousand years of Satanic rule. (Well, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit.)

 

The fact is, the traffic circle works great, even if the signs are overly confusing, and there's currently an ugly mound of dirt in the center. (One of the kids suggested that we put a statue of the leprechaun from Lucky Charms cereal there. I'm all for that.)

 

The thing is, doomsday scenarios exasperate me. It seems that lots of people seem ready to see the end of the world (in one form or other) predicted by all kinds of things. If you look historically, the worst possible case almost never happens. In fact, you can probably get away with saying that the worst possible case never happens and be right often enough to be considered a genius.

 

People seem to want everything in good or bad. People are either heroes whom Abraham Lincoln would ask for advice, or villains who could give Pol Pot pointers. Programs are either the saviors of jobs, lives, and liberty or the destroyers of prosperity, health, and souls. Traffic circles are either the best thing ever, or the death knell of all that is holy.

 

This really annoys me. I want to learn and to share and to create and to explore and to love, and I can't do that very well if everyone's too scared of the end of the world.

I've heard that the commandment Jesus gives most often is "Fear not." We should listen to him sometimes.

 Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

39: Bueller? Bueller?

Today's prompt is to write an exaggeration of an ailment or illness.

I really can't make it in to work today, boss. My body temperature is 37% of the way to my blood literally boiling in my veins. I'd go to the hospital, but my soporific condition makes driving unwise. In fact, I'm encountering such lassitude that I may intentionally place myself in a state of torpidity in order to forego unnecessary motility.

I have heard that in my condition, exposure to antigens might precipitate explosive expulsion of nasal excretions. I think it best if I remain home today. I'll see you tomorrow, if I'm feeling better.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

38: My Happy Place

 The prompt today was to write about my perfect vacation.

Your hair flew like feathers in the light breeze,

the island sunset making the sky orange and red,

and you were so beautiful that the world stopped.

You smiled at me

and I was beautiful

because you had chosen me.

And now, I watch your hair fly when there's breeze.

Not an island sunset, but an evening with the kids,

and you are so beautiful that the world stops.

Your smile at me

and I am beautiful

because you still choose me.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

37: Day Off of Death

The prompt today is to write a story with the words "hypocrite," "cookie jar," "city," and "telephone."

This is something new for me: fan fiction. Over the weekend, I came upon a web series called The Adventures of Super7even! It's a fun parody and homage to the old Cold War era spy movies. The shows are short (5-15 minutes each) and really professionally done, with good acting, cool stunts and the occasional joke that would test the censors (or would, if there were any censors anymore).

And now... on with today's story....

Agent Superseven doesn't get many days off, but when he does get one, he likes to spend it in his apartment, enjoying a good book, checking out some catalogs for red tights and black masks. He might have spent these moments reflecting on his childhood, but, as an agent of T.H.E.M., that part of his life was classified, even for him.

When Superseven looked up from his book, he was surprised to see the shapely form of Sandra West standing before him. Miss West was once an agent of T.H.E.M., but was now a free agent.

"Hi, Red," she said, placing one of her high heels on his leotard-clad knee. "Don't you ever take off the costume?"

Superseven slowly looked up Sandra's leg, then her body, and finally found her eyes. She wore a skirt slit up nearly to her hip and a frilly blouse unbuttoned almost too low. "That would be... unwise," he said.

Sandra took a minute to look Superseven up and down as well. "Pity," she said.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss West?" he asked.

"Offer a lady a drink?" she asked, taking her foot off her knee. "I've heard you make the best Banana Daiquiris in the city."

The spy in red stood up and walked over to the bar.

"Blended," Sandra said, "not crushed."

The super spy bent down to retrieve the bananas. When he rose again, Sandra had a gun pointed at his chest.

"Où sont les fichiers?" ["Where are the files?"] she asked.

"Какие файлы?" ["Which files?"] he responded.

"The plans for destroying T.H.E.Y. (an organization for evil), of course," ["Plany zniszczenia T.H.E.Y. (organizacja zła), oczywiście."] she said.

" Zeey're-a in zee cuukeee-a jer. Hurty flurty schnipp schnipp!" ["They're in the cookie jar. Hurty flurty schnipp schnipp!"] he responded.

"I suspected as much," Sandra said. "Now prepare to die."

Just then, the telephone rang, which was odd because Superseven didn't have a telephone.

Sandra looked left and right for the phone.

Two quick "fwitt"s from a silenced gun.

Sandra's eyes grew wide, then rolled back. She fell to the floor on her face.

Behind her stood... Sandra West.

"You were late for our date," Sandra (the live one) said. "Who was that?"

"I was busy," Superseven said. "U came by."

"Me?" asked Sandra (again, the live one).

"No, U," 7even said. "T.H.E.Y.'s mistress of disguise."

The live Sandra turned the dead Sandra onto her back. "Well what do you know?" she said, "U looked like me!"

Superseven said, "In fact, I think she's a..." He put on a pair of sunglasses. "... a dead ringer!"

"YEEEEEAAAAHHHH!"

"What was that?" 7even asked.

"Sorry," Sandra said. "These heels are killing me."

"Well," El Espía Rojo said, "we'd better get this cleaned up."

He took a card off the bar and pressed the call button on his utility glove. "Dead Spy Removal Service? I have a pickup for you. Oh, and I've got enough punches so that this one is free."

(Written with the permission and cooperation of T.H.E.M.)

Super7even will return...

(I just realized I left off using the word 'hypocrite' until now...)

  Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

36: Why Hitchhiking on the Interstate is Illegal

I'm to write a sensationalistic news story. Thanks to my son Nathaniel for the idea.


New Species of Bullet-Proof Bear Discovered

SLIDELL (BQ): Local policemen discovered a bear living in the small bit of wooded area found between I-12 and the Exit 80 on-ramp. The bear apparently has been living in the copse for many years, surviving primarily on produce fallen from passing trucks, as well as the occasional unfortunate hitchhiker. 

The bear has apparently developed bullet-proof skin from surviving in so small a place with so little water. This made it impossible for local police, or the national guard from the nearby base to capture it or kill it. It was therefore decided to leave the bear where it is. Signs were placed at several points warning of the bear, signs which the bear immediately tore down.

Authorities believe similar man-eating bullet-proof bears (and at least one moose) may be living in other small wooded areas along the interstate. Citizens should beware.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

35: Talking to Myself

Prompt # 35 is to write about a challenge I faced.

Don't look at the clock. They say the worst thing you can do is look at the clock. It really doesn't matter what time it is. You know it's late so don't...

OK, so now you know it's 1:30 AM. Happy? Does that make you sleepier, you dope? I told you not to look at the...

STOP DOING MATH! It doesn't matter how long you have until the alarm goes off. You just need to calm your mind and STOP DOING MATH! All it'll do is make you worry about how you'll feel and that won't make it any easier to relax, now will it?

Yes, we all know what you forgot to do today, yesterday, but you're not going to do it now. You need to sleep. Just let your mind go blank. Just close your eyes and look at the darkness. Breathe in. Listen to your breathing. Listen to Christie's breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

No, don't...

ALL RIGHT! SO IT'S 1:35 NOW! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?

OK. Try this. Let's start a dream. You and Christie are on vacation. You're sitting out on the balcony of your fancy hotel room and the ocean waves are just flowing in and there's a nice breeze. She leans her head against your shoulder and...

YOU DON'T NEED TO FIGURE OUT HER MOTHER'S DAY PRESENT AT 1:35 IN THE MORNING!

Really, what's wrong with you?

Look. All you've got to do is relax. Just let your muscles go limp.

OK. We're a little uncomfortable. Just turn onto the other side. There. That's better, right?

No! No! Don't turn back over to check the...

1:45! Does it MATTER that it's 1:45? No! It doesn't matter! 

There really is something wrong with you.

Now. Just go back where you're comfortable and breathe in and out and think about Christie and you on that balcony, and just calm down and....

You're trying to figure out how long you've got until the alarm goes off, aren't you?

That's it! I give up! Toss and turn all you want! I'm done! See you tomorrow night!

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.