Saturday, May 30, 2015

GNG Exercise May 2nd 2015_New Words_ReadGeorgiaNutts.com


(Ailurophile: A cat lover)

My heart breaks for that one; you know the woman covered in bushes of orange and brown or the occasional patch of black drifting from the spot just above her right shoulder. The technical term for a woman such as this is ailurophile. It rolls off the tongue don’t you think?

They come in many forms; hiding behind closed doors keeping the worlds at bay, save for the four legged furry creatures who became their children of choice. Sometime they manage to keep things together. Litter boxes cleaned and cleared, the fuzz swept up by one of those rounding robo things offering a poor critter a short ride into the broken mantle hanging down from the wall.

For the unfortunate ones with no place to call their own, those of us civilized folks walk right past them in the park, trying our darnedest to not notice the ammonia permeating from the soiled garments covered in things I dare not dream of identifying. Eyes covered, head hung low we rush along our way without a thought as cold hands rub over fur for warmth.
They’re not all off of their rockers you know. They just really enjoy the company of beings who know when not to bother others just as they wish to no bother us. So call them what you will: Bitch don’t ever, no matter how tempted, call that one a crazy cat lady.

(Lissome: Easily flexed, nimble)

The pedestrian crossed over me with the nimble dexterity of a drunken gymnast and I internally sighed as he lifted his phone to archive my embarrassment. It was going to take forever for those aid workers to get out her and lift me off the pavement. When my seventies styled pauperize had decided that I was no longer of interest, my situation sunk to a new low when the patter of fury paws was upon me. The lissome creature folded, bulked and wriggled between my nooks and crannies until, much to my chagrin, the bastard lifted his shaggy leg and urinated upon my ridged bark.

(PIFFLE: Nonsense)

Joshua hadn't yet looked up from cleaning his nails.  In fact, he had finished a full two and a half minutes before, but he kept his gaze carefully downward and fidgeted his fingers, maintaining the pretense.  This was his common practice when he wished to avoid what he presumed would be an uncomfortable, or at the very least, annoying interaction with another human being.  His true friends recognized this about him.  Delano leaned back, apparently having abandoned even the hope that he might still seem to harbor any humility.  He couldn't help it; being right was at the very core of his life's aspirations.  He waited for some acknowledgment from the other man, who still seemed to be trying to get his nails clean.  Joshua breathed once, deeply and stared briefly out the window.  He knew Delano was prone to some weird notions but this whole business about the Gods in the garden hammock seemed pure piffle.  Not quite dumb enough to be naive, not quite intentional to be absurd, it just hovered in the vast middle ground of plain, undecorated idiocy.  Like a foolish idea heard once and cherished without the benefit of reason; yet in his own words it has his direct experience that he had met and spoken with God, or at least A God, whom he had accidentally woken up from his nap right there in the garden hammock. Joshua considered monetarily an attempt to look directly at Delano.  He decided ungracefully to just keep staring at the trees waving lazily outside.  "That's bullshit," he said, rather blandly.

(Veridical: Truthful; corresponding to the facts, real, genuine)

Bria would be tortured if she were a bit more introspective. Victor would be her knight in shining armor if he were a bit more considerate. Love Reciprocated is the veridical tale of their affair du coeur.

(Sang-froid: French. Literally means cold-blood)

Recently, I watched the Count of Monte Cristo. Dumas's brilliance aside, the actor Jim Caviezel's portrayal of Edmond Dantes had a certain sang-froid. A beautiful reptilian quality that made you shiver through and through.

GNG Exercise April 18th 2015_True or False_ReadGeorgiaNutts.com




Story 1

My uncle, who was a police detective in Burlington, Iowa, once conveyed to me the story of a widower, caught and convicted of murder only after five years of investigation.  The case had almost been relegated to "cold" status when some freak root related damage to the septic system in the home he and his wife had lived in years earlier led to the accidental exhumation of her body from the back yard.  "You prob'ly ought not look at these," he told me.  There were pictures laid out on the table; one of the photos showed a hole in the ground, bones spread out among tattered rags.  I had nightmares for a month.  I always dreaded visits to our relatives in Iowa after that.

Story 2

Once, when I was about 11 years old, some friends and I got into huge trouble when we snuck into new home construction going on in our neighborhood and used a can of paint we found left in there to deface some of the doors, which were pine panel, natural wood, unpainted.  My father was so enraged, he almost couldn't speak.  I was the only of my friends dumb enough to have identified where I lived to the contractor whom had found us during our mischief.  Though I later regretted what I thought was my foolish honesty, I regretted the original transgression worse, which I guess is a good thing.

Khadija

Story 1

Zach walked through the crowded streets, hands in his pockets, mostly ignoring the noise and people around him. His sensitive ears picked up everything, and it irritated him. Just then, the shape-shifter nearly crashed into a drunk staggering along of the sidewalk.  The man immediately began screeching at Zach, and he scrunched up his nose in distaste; he hated drunks. The wyvern rolled his eyes and pushed the drunken man out of the way and continued to walk. "I hate drunks almost as much as I hate humans in general," he muttered. Of all the lies he told, at east that was the truth.

Story 2

Nao was a liar. A legitimate, bonafide, pathological liar. His lies ranged from ‘No, of course I didn't take any food from your store! Stealing is bad!’, to ‘Hey, play a game with me! I'll let you live if you win!’;  a lie often told before the psychic's deadly games of tag. Yes, Nao Yukimura was a liar. But did he care? No… of course not. His mental growth being stunted at age five, he couldn't tell the difference between right and wrong. Though, even if he did, he probably wouldn't care anyway.


Story 1

I'm a cat. Everyday upon waking up, I go to scratch at the front door. Someone swings it out and then my furry naked body rushes quick as it can go through that opened space. Those open farm fields make my paws tingle. The days become a blur of creatures, bugs, flowers, trees and all the other green growing things. Once the sun goes down behind the hills, my tummy always reminds me that it’s time to go home.

Story 2

I haven't exactly planned tonight's dinner. It’s not because of lack of choice mind you, but because I'm poor at planning.  There are pork chops, spaghetti, tasty fish fillets and chicken tenders too. After making entrees, you have’ta plan the sides too. The sides always trip me up. It makes little sense stating it aloud alone, but I blame that darned oven. That thing never pre-heats just right. Can't plan the sides to finish in queue with the main piece of the meal.
Planning always gets jinxed by that oven refusing to heat up and stay the temperature its set to. Anything 400 degrees and below... those foods suck the most to create. On those nights we're lucky if everything finishes in an hour, it usually takes two. Grumbly tummies often lead to grumblier evenings till the food reaches completion. I truly hate my oven.


Story 1: Desperate to smoke

‘Smoking Kills’ was a slogan that was drummed into my head as a child in the 80’s: Say no to drugs. Eggs in a frying pan: A crude demonstration of my brain on drugs. I sat pensively on the step, hidden by the wall of the porch and waited for a bag of bones, also known as Mr. Teathers.  Gingerly, he creaked and cracked his way to the old metal lawn chair that was disturbingly more at home on the old porch tile than the mud patch of my grandmother’s lawn. From the shadow of my location, I heard the strike of a match and the slow burning sound of a drag. Silence… Drag. Cough. Drag. This was the moment. I tilted my head toward the banister to spy ascending curls of smoke from the tip of his cigarette. Slowly, his breathing became labored until it leveled into a steady rhythm. The instant I heard the first snore, I grabbed the bud and ran.

Story 2: Revenge - A Haiku

In the dark I wait
Poised with needles sharply placed
Today, Jason learns