(Written by Carrie:)
"Hhhey," the voice breathed. I mopped the steam and sweat from my glasses and blinked in disbelief. There he stood--Jovan Musk! He was so golden, as golden as a Palomino colt, which is a male horse under the age of four. It was as if a beacon of light was shining on him, highlighting his glimmering sandy hair and Werther's Original (c) colored skin. And as the steam cleared, I saw that he was shirtless, just like a Greek centaur. It was all I could do not to gulp. "GULP," I choked. Then I noticed my parachute, wadded in a wet puddle of circus hues, on the table next to the washer. Jovan had touched my parachute!!
"Sorry about that," he said, noticing my eyes lock with the wet parachute like a plastic lid on a Glad tupperware container. "I had to use the washer." .
(Written by me:)
"It-it-it's okay," I stammered as I felt my cheeks flush darker than my Nars Handcuffs blush. I tried to break the Gladware lock with the parachute to examine his sinewy musculature. Any more centauresque and he'd have a tail. Quickly I came to my senses and rejoined the conversation. "That's my parachute you have there. It means a lot to me." I stopped short of saying I could no more part with it than I could place my firstborn in a basket in the bullrushes.
"Yeah, the spin cycle had just finished and I really have to wash this load. I'm going to Medieval Times tonight." Medieval Times? Alone or with a date? The thought spun in my head like a sprawling grape tendril seeking earth.
(Written by OfficeGnome:)
"Medieval Times? I love eating with my hands. And Bryan Adams!" I blurted out.
Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, starring Kevin Costner as the sultry British bandit was my ultimate favorite film of all time. My dream wedding featured me walking down the aisle to Adam's masterpiece "Everthing I do, I do it for you" and having our first dance to "Heaven." Medieval Times would be the perfect place to hold a reception.
"Enquiring minds want to know - Does your girlfriend like eating with her hands too?" I inquired of Jovan.
"Girlfriend? Huh, Who?" he answered and then with a pregnant pause continued, "Oh...I'm not going to the show with anyone. I'm actually performing in it."
(Written by Carrie:)
Performing!! Of COURSE he was performing. I knew he reminded me of a centaur for a reason. I briefly imagined him galloping heroically across a sawdust-floored coliseum, like Ares, the God of War, the blood of his victims smeared on the ground.
Suddenly I realized Jovan was looking at me expectantly. How much time had passed? Did he want to ask me something? I shook my mind free of clanging suits of armor and bloodthirsty townspeople and yelled "W-wow, performing! Do you JOUST at all?"
Jovan shrugged as he poured liquid detergent into the washer, tenderly, as if it were liquid jurassic amber containing rare fossils. "Yeah I think I might be jousting tonight. I do whatever they need me to do. Sometimes it's performing, sometimes preparing marinade. It's a pretty cool place. You should check it out."
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
mysterious whispers, part 1
Two of my friends who shall remain anonymous until I get their permission to identify them, and I are writing a young adult novel. We each write a paragraph and then email it and take turns adding. We got the idea for it based on Friend #1's hot downstairs neighbor whom she only sees in the laundry room, and I thought it should be called "Mysterious Whispers" after a They Might Be Giants lyric that I think is funny. Anyway, here 'tis. I'll specify who wrote each paragraph.
(Written by me)
"Mysterious Whispers"
A YA novel
I was restless, and not without reason. Steve Raible was talking on the TV, but it was hard to concentrate with all the clanging around downstairs. I knew what the all metal slamming meant: Hott Downstairs Neighbor was doing his laundry. I'd peeked at his mail and learned his name was Jovan Musk. It only piqued my already-simmering curiosity about the man behind the swarthy exterior.
(Written by OfficeGnome)
I took a deep, slow breath and tried to focus on listening to the tonight's breaking news. Steve was reporting on a recent rash of robberies in my neighborhood. I was troubled by these crimes, but even more troubled by my incredible attraction to Steve's sexy voice.
(Written by Carrie)
Torn between two diversions, I sank into my papasan chair in a reverie. But before I could absorb Steve's sensuous murmurs about the robbery at Super Supplements, I suddenly remembered something! The realization hit me like a bar of Ivory soap inserted in a tube sock. I had volunteered to wash the colorful parachute from my most recent interactive Trust Issues class, and I knew it had completed the wash cycle by now (75 cents for one half hour). We use the parachute to bounce popcorn in the air, and last week the popcorn had been especially buttery. I realized with a jolt that Jovan Musk could be wondering how to work around this large mass of vibrant nylon. I shot up out of my chair like a poison dart from a straw. Before I even knew what I was doing I had grabbed my key and was stumbling down the stairs to the laundry room, clenched with simmering curiosity about what lied therein.
(Written by me)
As I approached the laundry room door my breath quickened, and I paused. Reaching to touch the bulbous girth of the doorknob, I licked my lips breathlessly and wondered what I could say to Jovan. Surely he would be up for discussing my Trust Issues parachute. But if I invited him up for Triscuits and maybe a white wine spritzer, what would he say? I pondered the many possible scenarios unfolding before me like cards spurting out of a dealer's shuffle machine. Worst case scenario, he would tell me to eat a hot bowl of dicks. I could live with that. Or could I? It was too late now. I gathered every ounce of courage I had, and forged into the laundry room.
(Written by OfficeGnome)
The room was moist and foggy, like the San Francisco that I've seen advertised on Rice-a-Roni commercials. The thick steamy air made seeing out of my brand-new Neil Hamburger-style (TM) glasses impossible. Ever since I saw Britney Spears wearing a pair in the latest issue of US Weekly (R), I knew I had to get some for myself.
"Hello, is anyone there?" I called out. A mysterious voice whispered back to me from beyond....
(Written by me)
"Mysterious Whispers"
A YA novel
I was restless, and not without reason. Steve Raible was talking on the TV, but it was hard to concentrate with all the clanging around downstairs. I knew what the all metal slamming meant: Hott Downstairs Neighbor was doing his laundry. I'd peeked at his mail and learned his name was Jovan Musk. It only piqued my already-simmering curiosity about the man behind the swarthy exterior.
(Written by OfficeGnome)
I took a deep, slow breath and tried to focus on listening to the tonight's breaking news. Steve was reporting on a recent rash of robberies in my neighborhood. I was troubled by these crimes, but even more troubled by my incredible attraction to Steve's sexy voice.
(Written by Carrie)
Torn between two diversions, I sank into my papasan chair in a reverie. But before I could absorb Steve's sensuous murmurs about the robbery at Super Supplements, I suddenly remembered something! The realization hit me like a bar of Ivory soap inserted in a tube sock. I had volunteered to wash the colorful parachute from my most recent interactive Trust Issues class, and I knew it had completed the wash cycle by now (75 cents for one half hour). We use the parachute to bounce popcorn in the air, and last week the popcorn had been especially buttery. I realized with a jolt that Jovan Musk could be wondering how to work around this large mass of vibrant nylon. I shot up out of my chair like a poison dart from a straw. Before I even knew what I was doing I had grabbed my key and was stumbling down the stairs to the laundry room, clenched with simmering curiosity about what lied therein.
(Written by me)
As I approached the laundry room door my breath quickened, and I paused. Reaching to touch the bulbous girth of the doorknob, I licked my lips breathlessly and wondered what I could say to Jovan. Surely he would be up for discussing my Trust Issues parachute. But if I invited him up for Triscuits and maybe a white wine spritzer, what would he say? I pondered the many possible scenarios unfolding before me like cards spurting out of a dealer's shuffle machine. Worst case scenario, he would tell me to eat a hot bowl of dicks. I could live with that. Or could I? It was too late now. I gathered every ounce of courage I had, and forged into the laundry room.
(Written by OfficeGnome)
The room was moist and foggy, like the San Francisco that I've seen advertised on Rice-a-Roni commercials. The thick steamy air made seeing out of my brand-new Neil Hamburger-style (TM) glasses impossible. Ever since I saw Britney Spears wearing a pair in the latest issue of US Weekly (R), I knew I had to get some for myself.
"Hello, is anyone there?" I called out. A mysterious voice whispered back to me from beyond....
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