Archive for May, 2009

The whirring slowed and she lifted the lid of the machine. Towels sat there, wrung out and damp. The rough texture scratched her skin. Picking up the first towel, she heard a clitter-clatter sound. That doesn’t sound like coins. She shook out the towel. Clack, clackity clack. Leaning in for a closer look were some small white…things. Is that candy Nerds? Ugh, kids. The small pebble rolled between her finger and thumb were not sticky. Hmm. not candy, plastic. She reached in for the next towel. Clickety, clickety clickety! Hundreds of little plastic beads.

She reached in and removed article by article, dispelling more vile balls as she went. Once all were removed, towels, not beads, she tried to scoop the errant things. To no avail. Ah, but plastic floats. She clickes the machine on. As the water rises, so do the beads. Some of them. Hmm.

The tub filled, and she plucked one or two out. They bobbed as she reached for them. She skimmed the surface but saw that they swayed away with the current. The roll of paper towels caught her eyes. Without conscious thought, she placed a sheet on her hand and swept through the water. It’s not net, but it’ll do.  The surface gleaned of all the alien objects she began to scoop in the soap. But before the first powdered flake fell, bubbles appeared in the water as one by one, more beads floated up. Realizing now more must be trapped under the tumbler, she agitated the water, manually twisted the plastic tube. 

And so it went, skimming the water, bobbing for plastics, agitating the water. At least twenty times. Just when she thought she was done, one more agitation brought dozens of floating vile things.

This is a true story. One that took over an hour to complete. Is it finishes? Nay. And again I say, “Nay.” I’ve washed clothes since then, about three loads, and still some beads appear. 

Moral of the story: Never wash a stuffed toy. (And to think my dog played with it…)

Dreaming while awake is interesting. No, I don’t mean daydreaming, although that’s nice too. I mean following your dreams with such a passion that you are almost blind to anything else. I wake up, and besides wanting to go back to bed as soon as possible, I think of writing. It consumes me. If I’m not writing I’m plotting, I’m thinking of those two new twists that just came to me. I’m planning on ways to torture, or at least be cruel to real people put into fiction. (C.L from work, I’m working on YOU! [it's ok. they don't know I write.])

I’ve moved past my malaise and discouragement about me taking so long to get anywhere. I mean, if I drew a graph for time spent and effort put forth, it would NOT be an inverse diagram. (where’d THAT come from.)  So besides obscure math references, I have oodles of romance fiction  waiting to be purged.

I will exorcise these characters, so help me…