I’m sorry to report that not every short story is a walk in the park to write. Sometimes, you just have those days where it’s a struggle to get the words out on the paper. Enter my mind, if you will, for just a moment, and you will see why “Blossom vs. the Zombie Werewolves” was, sadly, never meant to be.
Me typing:
Blossom sat on the red tiles of the kitchen floor, watching as her mother pulled the pumpkin spice muffins out of the oven.
Wait a minute. This is my story, and I hate pumpkin.
Blossom sat on the red tiles of the kitchen floor, watching as her mother pulled the chocolate chip muffins out of the oven.
Much better.
I sure am hungry.
Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Rock for sixteen years.
Now I remember why I like the name Blossom Rock so much. That’s the actress that played Grandmamma on the Addams Family. Crap.
Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Cohen for sixteen years.
I had a roommate in college with the last name Cohen. Since my plan for Violette involves dismemberment by zombie, she could sue me for wrongful death of a literary character. Could get messy.
Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Jones for sixteen years.
Am I supposed to write out sixteen? Can’t I just use the number 16? Where is my proofreading bible?
Found it. Looks like the cat barfed on it, and now the pages are all stuck together. Must be some other literary fix to this.
Blossom’s mother, Violette Jones, had never married Blossom's father, a struggling artist named Flea whom she had picked up hitchhiking one day. After a night of passion among the desert cacti, she had left him outside of Phoenix, never to see him again.
Wasn’t Flea the name of that guitarist from Red Hot Chili Peppers? And I was worried about my roommate suing me?
. . . a struggling artist named Roach whom she had picked up hitchhiking one day.
Do I have any chocolate chip muffin mix? I sure could go for something sweet right now. Wait--I think there’s an old Ring Ding in the junk food drawer.
Violette was late for her Weight Watchers meeting.
I suppose an apple and a cup of green tea would be more sensible.
Violette crouched down to where Blossom was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Blossom, honey? Will you be okay by yourself for a little while so that Momma can go learn how to be skinny?”
Jeez, what kind of mother leaves her four-year-old home alone? I’m glad she’s getting disemboweled.
Blossom sucked her fingers in reply. Outside, the wolves were howling.
Uh-oh. THAT can't be good.
Blossom stood by the front door, watching as her mother’s taillights receded into the darkness. Suddenly, a slobbering monstrosity of a wolf, with wild gray hair and burning red eyes, jumped onto the front stoop. Blossom jumped back from the screen door, then smiled. “Good doggy,” she lisped, opening the door.
Well, so much for Blossom. Off to Dunkin' Donuts!
Me typing:
Blossom sat on the red tiles of the kitchen floor, watching as her mother pulled the pumpkin spice muffins out of the oven.
Wait a minute. This is my story, and I hate pumpkin.
Blossom sat on the red tiles of the kitchen floor, watching as her mother pulled the chocolate chip muffins out of the oven.
Much better.
I sure am hungry.
Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Rock for sixteen years.
Now I remember why I like the name Blossom Rock so much. That’s the actress that played Grandmamma on the Addams Family. Crap.
Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Cohen for sixteen years.
I had a roommate in college with the last name Cohen. Since my plan for Violette involves dismemberment by zombie, she could sue me for wrongful death of a literary character. Could get messy.
Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Jones for sixteen years.
Am I supposed to write out sixteen? Can’t I just use the number 16? Where is my proofreading bible?
Found it. Looks like the cat barfed on it, and now the pages are all stuck together. Must be some other literary fix to this.
Blossom’s mother, Violette Jones, had never married Blossom's father, a struggling artist named Flea whom she had picked up hitchhiking one day. After a night of passion among the desert cacti, she had left him outside of Phoenix, never to see him again.
Wasn’t Flea the name of that guitarist from Red Hot Chili Peppers? And I was worried about my roommate suing me?
. . . a struggling artist named Roach whom she had picked up hitchhiking one day.
Do I have any chocolate chip muffin mix? I sure could go for something sweet right now. Wait--I think there’s an old Ring Ding in the junk food drawer.
Violette was late for her Weight Watchers meeting.
I suppose an apple and a cup of green tea would be more sensible.
Violette crouched down to where Blossom was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Blossom, honey? Will you be okay by yourself for a little while so that Momma can go learn how to be skinny?”
Jeez, what kind of mother leaves her four-year-old home alone? I’m glad she’s getting disemboweled.
Blossom sucked her fingers in reply. Outside, the wolves were howling.
Uh-oh. THAT can't be good.
Blossom stood by the front door, watching as her mother’s taillights receded into the darkness. Suddenly, a slobbering monstrosity of a wolf, with wild gray hair and burning red eyes, jumped onto the front stoop. Blossom jumped back from the screen door, then smiled. “Good doggy,” she lisped, opening the door.
Well, so much for Blossom. Off to Dunkin' Donuts!
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