Things I have woken up in the middle of the night to write down, thinking they were GENIUS, only to be baffled by them in the morning...

In my dreamworld, these were all killer ideas.

• "I made a deal with Rumplestltskin. It's not that I don't know how to spell that word; it's that I CAN NEVER know how to spell it!"

• "Set phasers to STUNNA!" *as sunglasses are being flipped down onto face*

• Pacifiers and socks conspire against us for mutual lostness. Maybe they are in a decades-long game of hide-and-seek to the death with each other, and we are just the by-standing casualties of their war.
• "Who has the ride away?"
  "The what?"
  "The ride away! When you know it's your turn, and you can ride away."
  "You can't be serious."

• The great (and lost) debates between the famous thinkers with their lesser-known colleague, the Greek philosopher Diabetes. Spoiler alert--most of his points are about donuts.
• You know that moment when you're crafting a project or building a little household something, and you realize all in an instant exactly what you've done wrong to lead you to this point of no return? Do you think the guys who carved the Easter Island Heads had a moment like that, as they watched their full-bodied statues sink into the fertile earth beneath the far too-weighty faces?   "Aw, Jerry, I knew we should have brought the glue gun."

Actually, I may use some of these yet. 

Newtown, Connecticut

My kindergartener is safe in her bed now; I am shedding more tears and praying for the mamas who have to face tomorrow without theirs.

At the beginning of a long road and a steep climb,

Where the sun is rising behind a tall mountain,

You, the runners of a marathon you've not trained for, but must now finish, stand.

We are on the sidelines, with deafening cheers,

Lining up for as long as this journey goes, 

To bear witness as you reach for the glowing warmth coming up behind that hill. 

We cannot run for you.

but

if you'll let us,

We will pass you metaphorical protein bars and 

Tiny cups filled with electrolyte water and

Watch as you place one foot, then the other, then the other.

We will brace your backs and bind up your smaller scrapes

While you go as though your life depended on it

Because there's no other truth to examine now,

No maxim or sympathetic adage to bestow,

No promise of loss restored,

No comfort we can create, 

Except this:

Our prayers are the now-hoarse voices,

Calling out to propel your next step forward in the darkest and hardest climb

Of your life. This Nation's bent knees and heavy hearts are the cheering crowd,

Saying - No. You will not be alone. 

In this great loss, you will never be alone.

The depth of your anguish we can never know, 

Still, we promise to carry your babies with us, and

To pass you another tiny cup filled with electrolyte water

As you go to the rising light. 

I cannot run for you. 

I stand watch as you go. 

Flash Fiction Friday--Migration Patterns

Not Cutting It 

 - A Monologue -
KRISANN GENTRY

It's my first time so I'll try not to squirm. Look, I'm terribly sorry for whatever comes out of me. I used to be able to handle this kind of thing by myself, and honestly, don't know what will happen. Calling in the reinforcements! Hahahahaha. Ahm. That's you, by the way. Do you have a bucket in case I get nauseous? You know, 'blouuughghghgh'? No? Okay, I'll do my best.

Okay, so my main problem is at the top. It's true that I'm plucking twice as frequently as I used to, and like I said, whatever. I was dealing with it, you know? But now it's changing it's shape. It's taking on a whole new form, and I'm just not equipped to deal with that. I certainly don't want to make it worse! Nice shape, okay? No high arches!

Do you have any release I need to sign before we begin? You know like if there's some kind of reaction. You won't burn me, right? IT'S NOT GOING TO BURN?

Sure, sorry. I'm ready. Will you count to three? I know they're getting wider, I get it; we get hairier as we age. Just make sure I don't leave here with them higher than where they started. I don't want them flying north for the summer, you know? Placement is very important.

Yes, sorry. I am, really. Okay. You can start.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"Secret Santa."

Read Gabriel's submission.
Read Linda's submission.

Racist Coffee

I don't know about you, but I seem to need more caffeine-enhanced beverages to survive this month. To that end, I bring you this friendly PSA, as introduced to me by my brother.

Flash Fiction Friday--Figureheads of State

   I refuse to Lie, Okay?    

KRISANN GENTRY

The Macy's parade marched slowly on, and on, as it does each year. The little girl sat at the window staring in awe, cognizant of the hullabaloo for maybe the first time in her young life.

At first, her family all gathered close by, enthralled more with her delighted squeals than the activity itself. One by one the bright attractions marched by, and at each new sight she demanded more information. "Who's that, Mama!?"
"That's Spider Man, sweetie," the woman answered before heading back into the kitchen to address the potatoes.
"Dad, what are those guys doing?"
"That's a marching band, gumdrop. Your old dad used to be in one of those. It's a real honor to be skilled enough to be invited to-"
"Whoa! Whasat!?!"
"That's a giant balloon in the shape of a football. Oh, speaking of which..." he headed out to the den to tune into the game.

Her questions and joyous squeals continued and uncles, aunts, and other guests busied themselves with other matters until finally, no one was left to query but Grandpa in his recliner. She asked his several questions, but he only grunted, or snored, once groggily asking her to refill his drink, so she finally resigned to watching the spectacle in silence. No matter though, because she didn't need anyone to tell her who the last participant in the grand parade was as he turned the corner onto their block.

"SANTA!!" she squealed.
"Nothin' but a lousy figurehead," Grandpa mumbled.
"A fig of what?"
He sat up a bit in his chair. "Fig yer head. He's got no power! Listen Lucy, don't bulieve in Santa, okay? Don't even bulieve in him, okay? He's got nothing to do with it."
Lucy came away from the window and scooted in close to his seat. "I can send letter to Santa, Grandpa!"
"Yeah, and you know who reads em? Their Congressional Department of Elves, that's who! They don't even make the toys - oh they'd like you to keep thinking that - but the laborers union knows it's the sweat and tears and the strong backs of the penguins that gets the job done! And whadda the penguins get for running the show? Okay? They get labeled black collar and fish wages. Okay? A total crock."
"I asked for a mermaid doll!"
"Lemme, let... lemme tellya something about this, okay? Your letter has to go through eighteen tiers before anybody relevant even hears your wish. The Elfery Department of Baking, the Elfery Bureau of Cheer, the Public Relations elves, the productions councils. These people are just fuzzy suits passing paper around. The system is broken, Lucy, okay?"

Grandpa turned over and went back to snoring in his chair and Lucy went back to the window, giggling and waving as she watched the sleigh pull away from her sight.

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is, 

"migration patterns."

Read Esther's submission.
Read Aaron's submission.

Christmas Spirit?

You decide:

Well, I have absolutely no motivation to decorate now...

Husband is Sick.

"I'm about to give you an idea about how I feel."
"Okay."
"I wish I had sweatpants."
"You have pajama pants."
"You can't go to the store in pajama pants."
"You can't go to the store in sweat pants!!"

His judgement is clouded.